Little Wolf
by Svendances
Summary: Regina Garcia is a normal fifteen year old, until one fateful day she get's her picture on the front page of the school newspaper, and her parents suddenly disappear. Next thing she knows there's all sorts of unsavoury characters chasing after her and her brother. Read and Review to find out why. Babe, as usual, but no Cupcakes were harmed in the making.
1. Chapter 1

_So, NaNoWriMo officially ended yesterday. This was my first year attempting it, and guess what! I WON! I managed to write about 50700 words throughout the month of November. And, I know it distresses a few of you to hear this, it was an original fiction. However, if you are interested in reading it let me know and I will send you a link to where it is posted on FictionPress._

_Now, on to why you're witnessing the birth of a new story when I haven't completed others (again!). To celebrate my survival of November, I decided to put in some work on my fanfics. So I opened up all my full length fanfics intending to get a chapter on at least one of them and start the ball rolling. As I was clicking on the little document icons, however, my gaze slipped to another title in the list. "Little Lupe." A document I started before even thinking up You're Pretty Messed Up Too. It was GOING to be the next story I posted. But then imagination took over. So it was saved and briefly forgotten about._

_I ended up opening it and having a read, realising that I couldn't go with my original plan for the story because it paralleled YPMUT to a great degree. However, as I sat considering it, a new plot came to mind and I promptly set about tweaking the first chapter (which was already written) to fit the new direction. _

_And that's why I'm posting it now. I promise I will continue to work on the others. In fact, after this is up I'm going straight over to work on That Froghurt Guy. If a chapter for it isn't up by Monday you have permission to shoot me. _

_Anyway, now that you've practically heard my life's story, I'll let you get on with reading._

**Chapter 1**

There's something to be said for being a girl and a youngest child. For one, I get treated like a princess half the time, and as barfy as that might sound, it can be very beneficial. For example. Lawn mowing? Not my job. Taking the garbage out? Not mine either. Cleaning the downstairs bathroom? Okay, that one _is_ mine, but it beats cleaning the upstairs bathroom. On the cleanliness scale where one is clean and ten is the standard a health inspector would shut a business down for, the upstairs bathroom tends to rate at about a seven and a half about four days after being scrubbed clean. Downstairs, on the other hand, manages to reach a three if left alone for about a fortnight. So I wasn't really complaining about that one.

Where was I?

Oh, right. It's pretty good to be me. I don't get the dirty, retch-inducing chores. I don't get yelled at for sitting on the furniture directly after my jog. And I get the last of the good cereal. That last one isn't really a perk that has been arbitrarily bestowed upon me, although I do tend to finish off the box quite often. No, this was merely coincidental. It helped that my older brother was rarely out of bed before I left for school in the morning.

I was finishing the last of my juice when Dad sauntered into the kitchen, fresh from his post-morning-run shower and swiped up the empty cereal box that was sat in front of me, dumping it in the trash can in the same swift movement before grabbing his granola off the shelf and sitting at the side of the table adjacent to mine. I wasn't quite sure how he always knew if the box was empty, but I'd learned not to ask. Asking about such things often brought me an enigmatic and somewhat confusing reply. I didn't need to start my day off with a brain ache.

"Morning, Little Lupe," Dad greeted as I tossed him the business section of today's paper.

Dad's always called me Little Lupe. At first it was a simple shortening of my name. Regina Guadeloupe Garcia. Yep, Guadeloupe. Spanish for River of Wolves or something like that. Also a reference to the Virgin Mary maybe? I don't know. It's been a few years since I did the research. Anyway, most people just call me Reggie. Except Dad. Apparently he's fond of using middle names. Like, he goes by Ricardo, despite his first name being Carlos.

Anyway, recently Little Lupe has come to be a reference to my wolf like tendencies – no, I'm not a werewolf, but how cool would that be?! I've been jogging for fitness since I was about eleven, but never really thought I was very athletic. Apparently though, I'm good at sprinting. This I found out in my first high school P.E. lesson, where I was then labelled as their last hope on the track. Embarrassing, I know, but only like six people ever turn up to watch track training

Another aspect of my wolfiness is my reflexes. I prefer to refer to it as ninja skill though, because how awesome are ninjas? This one time, I slapped a piece of cake out of my brother's hand just as he was bringing it to his mouth. It caused him to bite down on thin air, his teeth clacking together painfully. Serves him right since he'd pinched the cake from my plate in the first place.

"Morning," I replied, taking my bowl and glass to the sink and rinsing them.

As I began preparing sandwiches for my lunch, Dad started up a conversational tone. "I'll be home a little late tonight," he informed me.

I nodded, scooping peanut butter out of the jar and slathering it onto the bread. "It's Steve's turn," I replied.

Now Dad nodded (ever so slightly) and as if on cue, Stephen Carlos Garcia – otherwise known as my dear brother – stumbled into the kitchen, scratching his bare chest and yawning, his hair sticking up at odd angles. He mumbled something that might have resembled a greeting and plonked into a chair at the small kitchen table. Blindly, he reached out and grabbed the cereal box from the centre of the table and managed to pour a handful onto the table before cursing under his breath and glaring at me, like it was my fault.

Of course, part of the reason for his annoyance _was_ my fault, since the only cereal on offer was Dad's tasteless, healthy stuff. The other part was the lack of bowl, sitting, waiting patiently and obediently to catch his cereal. That was entirely his own doings.

Without speaking, Steve walked past me to the cupboard and grabbed a bowl. On his way back to the table he shoved me aside in order to fish a spoon out of the drawer.

"What's wrong with that one?" I asked, pointing to the recently cleaned spoon in the drainer as he sat back down.

Steve just gave me a look as he swept his spilled cereal into the bowl before topping it up from the box. He'd just taken his first bite when Dad spoke again, in that same conversational tone that so wasn't at all like him.

"I'll be home a little late tonight," he informed Steve.

A grunt and another accusing glare at me. I'm sure you're getting the impression by now that Steve was not a morning person. And you would be absolutely correct. Sometimes he doesn't muster the verbal dexterity for human speech until one in the afternoon, which made arguing my case much easier when convincing him to cover my dish duty on weekends.

"Seven o'clock," Dad continued.

"Mmhmm," Steve murmured.

Dropping my butter knife, I interrupted their repartee. "Just a moment, Dad," I said. "I'll translate for you. Oo, oo-ah, ah-oo, oo-oo, ah-oo, oo-ah-oo," I grunted like a monkey, waving my arms above my head and walking toward Steve on legs that were bent, adding to my ape impression.

He snatched up the tissue box from the centre of the table and half-heartedly lobbed it at my head. I caught it easily, grinning as he went back to his breakfast.

"I want dinner on the table."

"What?!" Steve exclaimed, dribbling milk down his chin. Ah, there's nothing like a shock to the system to bring on the ability to form whole words. "That's so not fair! It's not even supposed to be my turn to cook!"

This was true, but there was nothing he could do about it. I'd covered for him on four separate occasions in the past month and the conditions were that I could claim repayment at my chosen time. At that was now. Whether he liked it or not he was cooking dinner tonight.

I finished making my sandwiches, wrapped them up and put them on the table next to my biology text book. Before I'd even taken another step away from the table to collect my pre-prepared salad from the fridge, Steve had snatched the sandwiches and set them on his other side, out of my immediate reach. Popping my hip, I put my hand on my waist and stared at him pointedly.

"What?" he asked innocently.

"You have a choice," I told him. "I can either make your sandwiches and I chat on Facebook while you slave over a hot stove all on your lonesome. Or you give me back my sandwiches and I won't help you with dinner."

Dad eyed us suspiciously, not that I could blame him. For one, while Steve had trouble with mind fog in the morning, Dad had been awake for at least an hour already and was perfectly capable of full human communication within the first ten seconds of awaking. My double negative was not lost on him. Of course, he had actively encouraged my manipulation skills for a time, telling me that they were valuable, that they would get me where I want to go in life. That all ended when he realised that I'd started using them on him, though. It was a weird moment. He was, at once, angry with me, and immensely proud of my progress. I'd been given an ice cream sundae and then sent to my room for the rest of the weekend. Then there was the fact that he didn't approve of us working together. Not unsupervised at least. And especially not in the kitchen. With the hot things. And the sharp pointy objects.

Steve rolled his eyes, just like Mom, and shovelled another bite of cereal into his mouth. I thought – or perhaps hoped – that this meant he was stalling while he weighed his options. To my gag-reflex's horror, however, he began speaking with his mouth full.

"That's gross!" I exclaimed before he'd garbled two words around his granola. "Dad, make him stop!"

Dad – God bless him – looked like he wanted to sigh. Instead, though, in some ninja type move, he handed me my sandwiches, while he simultaneously pulled two tissues from the box that was now once more in the middle of the table, handing them to Steve and raised his own spoonful of cereal to his mouth. I swear Dad has an extra hand hidden somewhere, not that I want to think about where it could be hidden, because I'd seen him walking around in just boxer shorts.

"Stephen will be making dinner by himself tonight," Dad decreed causing Steve's mouth to hang open in disgust (empty this time, thank God). "_And_ making your own lunch."

"But she got her sandwiches back!" he exclaimed.

"You're old enough to make them yourself," Dad said. It wasn't much like him to step in between us like this. Usually he just let us work it out ourselves. Then again, usually, he didn't have to deal with both of us first thing in the morning.

That reminded me.

"What are you doing up, anyway?" I asked.

"I couldn't sleep," he deadpanned. "Someone had the radio on full blast."

"I like to hear the news over the sound of water gushing out of the shower head," I explained. "I can see why you wouldn't understand though, since you neither bathe nor keep up with current events."

He opened his mouth to retort but I cut him off swiftly.

"Twitter doesn't count."

"Enough," Dad said. There was no force behind the command. He didn't need it. We knew all too well what happened when we didn't obey. It had changed a few times over the years, but still maintained the same level of screw-with-your-day. He pointed his spoon at me. "You're gonna be late."

I nodded, grabbed my lunch and textbook from the table, dumped both into my back pack and nabbed my jacket from the hook in the hall on my way to the door. I'd just opened the security screen when I felt Dad's presence behind me. Turning, I found he was two steps away, but that changed as he pulled me into a hug.

"Dad?" I asked as he loosened his grip.

"Happy Birthday, Lupe," he murmured, turning me around and pushing me out the door as the bus pulled to the curb.

I managed to stumble down the porch steps and jog to the bus, stepping on and flashing my pass before turning back to the house only to find the front door was already closed. Shell shocked, I made my way down the aisle of the bus to an empty seat. I may be the only fifteen year old in the history of the twenty-first century to forget her own birthday.

* * *

_Thanks for taking a chance on the new story. Please leave a review to let me know what you think and whether you'd like it continued._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so much for your response to the first chapter. I'm glad you're all intrigued enough to give the second a go. _

**Chapter 2**

By the time seven o'clock rolled around I was elbow deep in piano practice. You might be wondering why a star of the track would play piano, so I should probably remind you that it wasn't until recently that I started to take track seriously – before that I just liked to jog, remember? So anyway, I was playing one of my favourite pieces (read: _not_ the ones my piano tutor set me) completely absorbed in the ebb and flow of the music, allowing it to wash over me and cleanse any ill-feelings I was having when suddenly I felt like I wasn't alone anymore. I assumed it was Steve, since I hadn't heard Dad's car on the driveway or the front door opening and closing, so without either pausing or looking away, I called over my shoulder, "Did you want something, Butt-Monkey?"

"Mom and Dad are home and dinner is ready, Turd-Burger," he informed me.

"All right, fine," I said with exasperation, navigating a particularly difficult section of music attempting to maintain the conversation. "I'll be there as soon as I finished the piece, Ass-Hat."

"Dung-Face," he muttered as he left the room. How I love our conversations. They're so pleasant.

I'd barely gotten two more bars out when the room was invaded once more, this time by a less depressing presence. Continuing to play, I glanced over my shoulder to find Mom standing a few feet away, her curly hair jutting out in excited tufts from her pony tail. "Hi Mom," I greeted, returning my attention to the keys. "How was work?"

"Fine," she said, brushing aside the sheet music I had piled on the chair beside the piano. "No one died or abused me, so I can't complain." Mom always referred to things like that. Once she'd had a really bad day at work – I think she was working as a dog groomer at the time – and when I asked how her day had been she explained how she'd been dry humped by a Chihuahua, urinated on by a German Shepherd and almost has her fingers bitten off by Doberman, _but at least she hadn't been shot at_. Who does that? Like, oh, I had a pretty bad day all things considered, but at least no one tried to kill me. Steve's theory is that she was a cop in a past life.

"How about you?" she asked, idly tapping the lowest note on the piano with no beat what so ever, because she knew if she kept it up long enough I would stop playing. "I'm sorry I missed you this morning," she added solemnly. "I must have forgotten to set my alarm."

I took my left hand off the keys, reached over to slap my mother's hand away from the piano and then replaced my hand, all the while maintaining the upper melodies with my right hand and slotting the left back in perfectly. "It's fine, Mom," I assured her. "I know you're not a morning person."

"But it's your birthday!" she insisted. "I had all these plans of being up and cooking you breakfast -."

"Maybe it's a good thing you weren't up then," Dad's voice interrupted, sounding amused. The good old running joke in our family was that if there was one thing Mom couldn't do it was cook. Don't get me wrong, she was good at a heap of things – more than was normal as far as I was concerned – but cooking just wasn't one of them. "I'm sure the fire department doesn't appreciate being called out more than once a month," Dad added, and I noted the twinkle in his eye as I spun around on the stool, having given up on finishing the piece. "Come on, you two. Soup's on."

Dutifully, Mom and I followed Dad into the kitchen where Steve had set the small table for four. On the bench was a casserole dish filled with potato back, a plate with four pieces of grilled chicken, and a bowl of vegetables. I grabbed a plate from the top of the pile on the end of the counter and began filling my plate just as Mom's cell rang.

"Michelle Garcia speaking," she greeted pleasantly, stepping out into the hall away from the clatter of serving spoons against dishes.

I took my meal and sat in my usual place at the table, Steve two steps behind me as he took the seat opposite me. We weren't allowed to sit on adjacent sides of the table ever since the time I stabbed Steve's thigh with my fork for reaching across me for the gravy. Not only had I left a nasty bruise on my brother's leg, the gravy had splattered everywhere. We'd both been grounded for two weeks for that incident, and denied dessert for about a month.

We passed the time waiting for our parents like we'd been trained to do as children. By engaging in a staring contest. My eyes were stinging and watering by the time Dad set a plate down in both his and Mom's spots and took a seat, sitting very still as he too waited for Mom to get off the phone. Luckily for my weak eyes, Mom bustled not ten seconds after Dad sat down, he face a light with excitement.

"That was the agency," she informed us, sliding into her seat. "The makeup artist at the morgue is sick and they need someone to fill in for a week or two."

"What about the office assistant job at the insurance company?" Dad asked. "I thought you really liked it there."

"I was," Mom agreed. "But there're only so many documents a girl can photocopy before I get sick of it."

"So you're going to work with dead bodies instead?" Steve asked with a grin on his face as he forked a mouthful of chicken into his mouth. "Cool."

"Gross," I put.

Mom rolled her eyes. "The agency already spoke to the boss at the insurance place, they're happy to let me go. I start the new job tomorrow."

We ate in silence for a minute or two, savouring the herby flavour of Stephen's grilled chicken until he reached into his back pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. I groaned, thinking he was about to ask Dad to sign his latest detention slip. He couldn't even wait until after dinner to ruin my birthday with one of Dad's tirades. I swallowed my latest mouthful to ensure I wasn't caught by surprise when he started yelling; I'd learned that the hard way, choked on a burrito once.

"Check out who's on the front page of the school newspaper," Steve announced happily, unfolding the paper to reveal a black and white family portrait surrounded by headlines and tiny, columned writing.

"Shut up!" I exclaimed, reaching across the table to snatch it from his hand. I was too late, though, because Dad had already lifted it. "Why are we in the paper?" I asked. I shifted my chair to try to catch the headline, but stopped when I saw the look on Dad's case. My brief relief over the fact that it wasn't another detention slip was squashed down to the bottom of my stomach, sitting there heavily at the sight of Dad's blank expression. You know things were bad when Dad's face went blank.

Without a word, Dad stood from the table, and handed Mom the page before promptly leaving the room. I heard the distinct beep of the alarm system being armed at the front door and locked eyes with Steve. "What was in the article?" I asked, feeling my brows raise up almost to my hairline. I'd never seen Dad act like this and the fact that Mom hadn't said anything since the paper had been revealed made me really nervous.

Steve shrugged, shovelling another forkful of food into his mouth. "It's just a little spiel about me and the family," he explained with his mouth full. "They're doing a series of exposés on the seniors graduating this year. They talked about my football achievements and what I wanna do when I leave school. Mentioned you were my sister and a legend on the track and that you accompany the orchestra on the piano. There was a couple sentences about Mom and Dad too. I thought it was pretty cool."

"Kids, go to you rooms," Mom instructed. "Your father and I need to talk."

I looked between my mostly full plate and the wrapped present on the end table, at a loss as to how to voice my disappointment.

"Take them with you," Dad said from the doorway, his hands were casually tucked into the pockets of his pants, but his overall posture was tenser than tense.

Steve and I exchanged a quick glance, shooting to our feet simultaneously as we grabbed up out place settings and made our way out of the room. I paused at the door just long enough to tuck the small gift into my back pocket. Dad stepped aside to allow us passage and we hurried up the stairs. When we reached Steve's bedroom door I paused.

"Your own room, Dim-Wit," Steve said, shooing me away with his free hand as he plopped into his computer chair and propped his feet on his bed. "Dad's given me a reprieve from your presence for a change; it doesn't work if you're hovering in my doorway. Scat."

"Aren't you at least a little curious as to why Mom and Dad reacted like that to a little blurb about you in the paper?" I asked.

He shrugged again, shovelling still more food into his gob. "Sure," he allowed. "But I'm more annoyed with the fact that I'm probably not gonna get a piece of that awesome cake in the fridge all because I have bad timing. Mom and Dad will tell us what their deal is when they're ready. Until then, get out of my room."

I just nodded and turned to leave, glancing down at my dinner and acknowledging the turn of nausea the sight of it sent through my guts. All of a sudden, I wasn't so hungry anymore. A sigh escaped my lips as I started further down the hall to my own room.

"I'm sorry I ruined your birthday." Steve's apology drifted out of his room after me, but did little to ease the tightness that was taking hold of my body. It wasn't his fault. How was he supposed to know they would react like that to something good happening for a change?

* * *

_Like what you see? Leave a review and let me know._


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far. Your feed back is greatly appreciated. I spent some time fleshing out and honing the plot points of this story this afternoon on the way to work and am feeling like it's going to be really awesome if I can write it how I have it pictured in my head right now. So don't touch that dial._

**Chapter 3**

"It's your turn to cook," I informed Steve as we piled into his beat up, third of fourth hand Volkswagen. I was in the back seat, crammed between two of his well built football buddies. His girlfriend occupied the front seat. Ordinarily, I'd have taken the bus home, but somehow between Dad's reaction to the newspaper article and their vague explanation for why they were worried last night, I was no longer allowed. Mom had dropped me at school that morning on her way to her new temp job, making me pinkie swear to catch a lift with my brother and his usual car load of friends he drove home every afternoon. So it was pretty much like catching the bus, only less pleasant.

"I cooked last night," Steve replied over his shoulder as he backed out of the parking space. "It's your turn."

"Yeah, but aren't you going to that party tomorrow night?" I countered. "You won't be there to cook. And besides, you still owe me three swaps. Do you really want to take the tally back up to four?"

"Whatever," he said, sounding irritated. "Just shut your gob for the rest of the ride."

"Dude," the goon to my left piped up. "Why are you giving in to her? She can't prove anything, and she certainly can't force you to cook."

As we paused at the lights at the end of the street, he glanced over his shoulder at us, spearing me with an icy glare, and informing the guys on a sigh, "She always gets the agreement in writing."

"You're kidding," the Girlfriend said, placing her perfectly manicured, ungodly hand on his thigh. "She's soooo manipulative."

"She's sitting right here," I inserted under my breath.

"She's talking in my car again," Steve growled pointedly under his breath.

I pretty much tuned the rest of the conversation out, assuming it went something like this:

_Steve: Blah blah blah, football, blah blah blah, annoying little sister, blah blah blah, get so drunk at the party tomorrow night_

_Girlfriend: Fawn over Steve and his supposed talent on the field. Blah blah blah. Make suggestive comments about what else they could do at the party._

_Gooneys One and Two: Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!_

The Girlfriend was the last to be dropped off and I had to swallow down my gag reflex as they sucked face for a solid five minutes before she got out of the car. The moment she was gone, I climbed over the console between the front seats and plopped into the passenger side. We made the journey out of Girlfriend's neighbourhood in silence, but when we pulled out onto the main road Steve turned down the radio abruptly.

"What are your thoughts on last night?" he asked.

I stared out the front windshield at the car in front of us for a moment, taking in the licence plate number, the scratches on the trunk and the words _clean me_ smeared into the dust covered back window. My thoughts on the matter were about as vague as the explanation Mom had given me when she came in to say goodnight.

She'd assured me that Steve wasn't in trouble – not that I'd been worried about that, I like it when he's in trouble – and that they'd been over reacting. Apparently when we were enrolled in the school Mom and Dad were given a stack of forms to fill out, one of them being a media release form which they did _not_ fill out. When I'd enquired as to their reasons for choosing not to fill it in, Dad had announced his presence by stating that he didn't want his children to be sucked into media fascism. He'd then dropped a kiss on my forehead, wished me happy birthday one last time and steered Mom from the room as he left, closing the door behind him.

I could feel Steve's eyes glancing over at me again and again as he waited for my response, so eventually I settled for a shrug.

"Nothing?" he laughed. "You have an opinion on the way I comb my hair in the morning, but not on why Dad would overreact to one measly little article in the school rag?"

"He doesn't want us sucked into media fascism," I quoted, at a loss as to what he wanted me to say.

"Reggie, come on!" he urged, turning into our street. "Isn't it obvious that he's hiding something?" He threw the indicator on and glanced over at me again as a steady stream of three cars to pass in the opposite direction. "Justin's parents were thrilled when his article came out. And Kent's. And hell, Darlene's parents were pleased as punch last summer when the local news feed did that segment on girls in pageantry. And you _know_ they were essentially calling her a slut."

"So?"

"So!" Steve exclaimed, pulling into the driveway at last and putting the car in park. He turned his entire upper body to face me as he undid his seatbelt. "So there's obviously something he's not telling us."

"Like what?" I asked, undoing my own seatbelt and opening my door.

A weird, entirely uncoordinated, shiver ran through Steve, his arms waggling like spaghetti. "I don't know," he admitted. "I don't know much about their lives pre-us, but I bet this fascism line is covering up a bad experience he had with his photo in the paper once."

As we climbed out of the car and made our way to the trunk to collect our backpacks, I said, "I find that hard to believe. Dad never takes a bad photo. He's like Barney Stinson."

"Well, maybe he won a skeet shooting competition when he was in high school and he got his photo in the paper with a massive zit in the middle of his forehead of something. Maybe the other kids teased him for it."

The rest of the afternoon was spent actually in the same room, enjoying each other's compsny as we theorised on what kind of bad photo Dad could possibly have had published while we worked through homework and preparation for dinner – yes, I leant a hand. It got to the stage where we were laughing almost uncontrollably when Mom and Dad walked through the front door at six o'clock. Steve tossed a carrot in my direction and I made an exaggerated horrified face as I pretended to fumble for it. His laughter increased at my antics, which in turn caused my own to ramp it up a notch as I grabbed the vegetable out of the air and slammed it down on the cutting board.

"Whoa," Mom said, in a stage whisper as she came through the kitchen doorway. "Did you feel that?"

"A shiver down your spine?" Dad asked in reply. "Yeah, I felt it. We must have just crossed over into an alternate universe where our children are pleasant to one another."

"Jest if you will," I said, brandishing my knife, narrowly missing Steve's arm as he reached for the spice rack in front of me. "But we have decided that the reason you don't want our pictures in the paper is because you were once captured in a compromising or embarrassing situation, possibly involving a massive pimple or an untimely trip to the ground in a martial arts tournament."

"Mostly because we enjoy the mental image of you eating mat," Steve chimed in gleefully.

Dad swiped a piece of carrot from the board and popped it in his mouth, stating nonchalantly, "And it shall forever stay a mental image. You pair can't even beat me when you gang up."

"Okay, that isn't fair," Steve put in, hands on hips. "That time we had Mom helping us as well, and everyone knows she's more of a hindrance than a help."

Speaking of Mom, she had inserted herself between Steve and I and wrapped an arm around each of us, drawing us to her sides for a hug. "I love you too," she informed us, which I'm pretty sure is Mom-code for _next-time-you-think-your-father-is-dishing-out-unjust-punishments-don't-come-crying-to-me._ I let her hug me for a moment longer before remembering where she'd been all day.

"Eww!" I exclaimed, side stepping as fast as I could. "_Puh-lease_ tell me you washed the dead person cooties off your hands before you touched me." She looked down at her hands for a moment, her brow creased and lips forming a frown, like she'd only just remembered where her hands had been and was trying to recall if she had, in fact, washed them. "Mom?" I prompted, fear welling my chest. "You washed them, right? You wouldn't just touch dead faces all day and then leave without washing them?"

"Of course I did," she assured me on an eye roll. "And for the record, I wear gloves when I'm doing it."

"Whatever," I said. "Dead people are creepy."

"Like you first thing in the morning," Steve quipped. "Sometimes I have to look twice when we pass in the hall before you've put your makeup on, because on first glance I thought you were a ghoul."

"Very funny, ass-wipe," I retorted. "At least I don't have the need to scratch my privates in public."

Mom dropped her hands to her sides and locked eyes with Dad across the room as he returned from hall where he'd been removing his phone, wallet and keys from his trouser pockets and depositing them in the nook we had set up there. "And they're back," she said.

"I'm glad," he replied. "Pleasantville tends to raise my hackles."

* * *

_Hit the button. Leave a comment and pray that the next chapter will come fast. Or, if you're not religious, you can just stare at my icon sending me telepathic signals to hurry up and write. I'm sure that will work too._


	4. Chapter 4

_And after another exciting plotting adventure with Shreek (this time pertaining to the Merry Men and thier place in the story, among other things) I have another chapter for you. Please enjoy._

**Chapter 4**

After dinner, which went as well as anything can go when Steve is seated directly in front of me chewing with his mouth open, I did half an hour of piano practice and then met Mom, Dad and Steve in the living room for our bi-weekly, family viewing of crime shows. There were a heap on TV these days and what's even more convenient was that you could by the series on DVD. The entire west wall of the den was taken up by a massive bookcase that was filled only with DVDs and the majority of them were crime or superhero related. We had CSI in all its locations, Law and Order both normal and SVU, Criminal Minds, Bones, Castle, NCIS original and LA, The Mentalist, Lie to Me, Burn Notice, Jag and MacGyver. Not to mention the fairy tale and mythology based crime shows, like Lost Girl and Grimm. We also had all the Batman, Spiderman and Superman movies.

They were a bit fanatical, I suppose, but watching them with Mom and Dad was really interesting. I don't know whether he's seen them all before, but five minutes into any movie or episode, old or new, Dad knew who the culprit was and how the crime played out. Mom was pretty good too, but Dad was the expert.

The viewing had been a family tradition ever since I was old enough to not get totally freaked out by crimes and seeing dead people on TV and stuff. Generally we watch one disc per viewing session, but on school holidays when we don't have to be up to go to school the next day we sometimes watch two or three. We go through all the discs in a series chronologically until it's finished before moving to the next, because Dad likes order.

If you don't believe me, you should come over next time we do spring cleaning. The house is scrubbed from top to bottom. Literally. We start at the top and work our way down. The theory is that the dust and grime we may disturb in the process of cleaning will travel downward so we're saving time and effort by not having to clean it twice. My personal opinion was that I shouldn't have to crawl around in the dark corners of the attic _ever_ because attics are meant to be dusty and spooky and by cleaning ours regularly we are in violation of the Household Standards of America. Just like every house should have those perfect archway mouse holes.

We didn't have any of those either, just for the record. Steve and I checked when we were younger.

Speaking of Steve he was sprawled in one of the two armchairs set at either end of the sofa when I entered the living room, his legs thrown over one armrest as he texted God only cares who. Mom and Dad were side by side on the love seat, touching from shoulder to knee just like always. After a brief contemplation, I grabbed the cushion from the other chair and set it in front of Mom on the floor so that I was leaning against her legs – she liked to braid my hair while we watched TV.

Mom was giggling over something Dad had said as I settled before her.

"What's so funny?" I asked, tilting my head back so I was looking at the pair of them upside down. Dad, I noticed, had changed from his trousers and blue button through shirt that he wore for work to a dark grey t-shirt and his black cotton pyjama pants.

"They put your dad on the Demo table again today," she informed me, brushing my rampant curls back from my face. "He had a group of about twenty housewives and old ladies gathered around at one time." She placed her hand on Dad's arm. "Tell her about the slicer demonstration, Ric."

Dad got that look on his face like he wanted to roll his eyes again, but proceeded to explain how he was demonstrating the new slice-o-matic thing and a blue haired, permed old lady had asked to have a try. He'd obliged, beckoning her around to his side of the table so he could guide her through the motions, informing her that she could go slow and long or fast and short depending. Apparently, she'd fainted; the only thing keeping her from collapsing to the ground was Dad's arms around her. I was laughing by the end, despite how suggestive and gross the story was. I mean, sure, Dad's a good looking guy for his age, but the thought of ladies getting so hot and bothered over his slicer innuendos that they fainted was just appalling. I'd rather not think about it.

"Alright, phones turned off and on the coffee table," Dad announced. That was the rule. Family time is family time. All phones and devices that can be used to communicate and /or distract are to be either left in their respective rooms or switched off and put out in the centre where they are out of reach and in full view of everyone. We'd had to bring it in when Steve got to high school and started spending every waking hour texting or chatting with his friends.

The moment Steve tossed his phone onto the table Dad pressed a button the remote and we were all simultaneously absorbed into the mysterious world of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit.

The next evening, I was spread out on the sofa, reading _48 Shades of Brown_, the book I was studying in English class, when Steve stuck his head around the doorway. "Bug's here," he announced. "I'm leaving. Mom left some money for pizza on the fridge, but don't forget Dad's protocol."

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Don't open the door until after the guy's left. I'm not an imbecile, Steve."

"Didn't say you were," he said innocently. "Anyway, I'll probably be back late."

"Whatever. Just leave so I can enjoy your absence."

Without another word he was gone, arming the alarm system before he left, and I was home alone. Steve was off to his party, which he'd had to beg Dad to let him still go to this morning, because he'd forgotten to put the bins out last night. And Mom and Dad were on their mandatory date night. Once a month on a Friday night they'd meet at a restaurant after work, have dinner and see a movie or whatever. So for the next few hours I had the house to myself. I could do whatever I wanted – within reason of course, because somehow, Dad always knew what we were up to when they were out – and I could do it without distractions.

My plan? To catch up on my assignments. Boring, I know, but sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. If I got good grades this semester Mom and Dad have promised to buy me an iPad. And let me tell you, this girl wants an iPad.

By eleven o'clock I'd finished the book, written up chapter summaries, stared at my math homework for an hour and was online chatting with my friend Amanda when the phone rang. I'd brought the hand set into my room with me so that I wouldn't have to run halfway across the house to answer it if it rang, so I reached over to the bedside table and noted Steve's number displayed on the read out.

"What's up, Fart-face?" I greeted, typing a quick _BRB_ to Amanda and sitting up so I could concentrate on his slurring voice better.

"Reggie!" he exclaimed merrily. "Can you put Mom on?"

"They're not home yet," I informed him.

"But izz late. They should be home."

I rolled my eyes. "Well they're not. They probably had to catch a later movie time than they intended," I reasoned. "It's happened before. Why do you want Mom?"

"I need a lift home," he explained, letting out a disgusting belch as he did so. "I'm drunk and I need to come home."

"So get Bug to drive you."

"Bug's drunk too," Steve chuckled.

"Of course he is," I sighed. "Well good luck getting home then, maybe Darlene will come pick you up."

"I know!" he said loudly, causing me to move the phone away from my ear just a little bit. "_You_ can come get me!"

Oh, right, because that's such a great idea. "Steve, you're drunk, so you probably don't remember, but I don't have my license. I can't come get you."

He sounded like he was trying to sigh through his drunkenness, but failing horribly. All that came out was a series of breathy grunts until finally he gave up and used his words. "You know _how_ to drive, Reggie. Dad taught you. You can come pick me up and we'll go home. It'll take like ten minutes. No one will ever know!"

"What if I get caught?" I pointed out. "What if I'm pulled over by the police?"

"You won't be! I promise!"

And that is how I found myself twenty minutes later, navigating the roads in Steve's VW, my intoxicated brother in the passenger seat, giggling at the pretty lights through the window as I passed. "You owe me big time for this," I informed him, slowing to a stop at a red light and glancing in his direction.

His hand was waving back and forth in front of his face, his eyes following the movement avidly. "Have you ever wondered what it would be like to see in black and white?" he asked me.

"All the time," I replied sarcastically. I reached over and forced his hand down to his lap just as the light went green. "I am never covering your dinner shifts again," I began. "And you'll have to do my chores for at least a month."

Steve was back to examining his hands. He had his right hand about an inch from his face, staring at the palm with a furrowed brow. His other hand was poking at a spot, squeezing it briefly before flicking it. The next thing I knew, he hand was in _my_ face, blocking my view of the road ahead. "Does this look cancerous to you?" he asked as I swerved on the road, craning to see around him.

"Steve!" I exclaimed, at the end of my patience with him. I was just about to slam on the breaks and insist that we call Mom and Dad to come pick us up, because I refused to drive any further with him in the car, when a siren sounded from behind. My eyes darted to the rear view mirror, which was now filled with red and blue flashing lights, and I groaned, slowly pulling over to the curb. "See what you've done now?" I muttered to Steve as the police car pulled in behind us and the officer got out. "Dad's gonna be so pissed."

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_Dun DUN DUUUUUNNNNNNN! What on earth have Reggie and Steve gotten themselves into? Leave a review for a hopefully speedier update._


	5. Chapter 5

_Yay! Another chapter! _

**Chapter 5**

"None of the numbers you provided us with are picking up," Officer Kripke informed us, announcing his presence at our holding cell once more. We'd been here for over an hour and for the majority of that time they'd been attempting to get in contact with our parents. I'd listed off both their cell numbers, as well as Dad's pager and the home phone number, and apparently none of them were answering. He raised his little notepad and pen and I knew instinctively what he was going to ask. "Is there anyone else I could call for you?" he asked. "An aunt? Uncle? Grandparents?"

Just what I'd expected him to ask.

I shook my head solemnly. "Nope," I said. I was the default spokesperson for the pair of us, since Steve was less than sober and currently snoring his head off on the cot in the corner. It was entirely unfair that he should get us into this mess and then simply sleep through it, but it's happened, so I just had to deal with it. He'd get his comeuppance when Dad finally came and got us.

Officer Kripke's brow furrowed as he leaned his shoulder against the bars. He tucked his notebook and pen away in his pocket, staring at me contemplatively. "You don't have _any_ family we can call to come get you?" he asked, voicing yet another question I'd anticipated.

Truth was I'd never met _any _of my extended family. No grandmas, grandpas, cousins, or anything like that. In fact, up until the first grade, when he had a Grandparent's Day where we were supposed to bring grandma and/or grandpa to school with us, I wasn't even aware that other people had more than brothers, sisters and parents in their families. I thought only people on TV had those fabled extended families. I suppose it's a bit strange that we'd never even taken a road trip or vacation to go visit them, but hey, we were happy where we were, and if the stories from my friends were true, once you got outside of your immediate family, things got messy.

"No one," I assured him. "Just Steve, Mom, Dad and me."

"Do you have an emergency contact in case something happens to your parents?" he asked, still looking puzzled by my revelation.

"I don't think so," I said. And thinking about it, we really didn't. I mean, the plan, if anything was to happen to Mom and Dad was to go back to the house, because it would always be safe there. I couldn't very well do that if I was locked up in a cell.

"Well where do your parents work, then," he asked. "Maybe their bosses or workmates know where we can find them."

"Dad works at _Robot Kitchen_ on Mary Street," I informed him. "And Mom works at the mor-."

"Wait," Officer Kripke interrupted, holding up a hand and he stood up straight again. "Ric Garcia?" I rolled my eyes. Here comes the enthusiastic connection between myself and my dad's infamous appliance demonstrations. "As in Ric Garcia the sexy demo guy?"

I groaned by way of reply, because I couldn't voice my opinion of hearing my father described in such a way without vomiting.

"My mother loves him," he informed me. "Last month she and a few of her friends organised a bus trip from the senior centre just to go see his oven demonstration."

"Great," I sighed, sinking down to sit on the edge of the cot next to Steve's hip.

He nodded. "You should try get some sleep. If we haven't gotten in contact with your parents by eight tomorrow morning we'll have to call child services. But don't worry; we're going to do whatever we can to make sure that doesn't happen. We've even sent a patrol over to your house to make sure they're not there."

Swallow against the lump in my throat I simply nodded my understanding, waiting for him to leave so I could sleep, or cry, or something. I never should have let Steve talk me into going to get him. He was drunk, it was stupid of me to listen to him, but he was my brother and even though he can be a pain in the rear end, Dad had instilled a sense of duty to the family in the both of us. And since he was in need and I was the only person available to help, I'd felt obligated.

When the officer was out of sight, I slid to the floor beside the cot, resting my arms on the thin mattress to make a sort of pillow to rest my head on. I couldn't tell you how long I leaned there, staring at Steve's elbow as I willed my brain to shut off so I could sleep, but I must have dozed off at some point because when I opened my eyes I was horizontal on the cot, my head on Steve's thigh. Rolling onto my back, I noted Steve was awake and staring out of the cell. I opened my mouth to ask how long he'd been up, but he shook his head slightly and brought his hand – which had been on my stomach – up to his lips, indicating for me to stay quiet.

In the silence that followed, I could make out voices coming from down the hall. Not much was coherent at this distance, but I did recognise my full name along with Steve's. It sounded like child services were here to pick us up. And that meant Mom and Dad still couldn't be contacted. The lump was back in my throat as I manoeuvred myself into a seated position beside my brother, my fingers seeking out his hand to hold. Mom and Dad were missing, they'd never been out of contact for this long, and I was afraid that child services would split me and Steve up. I didn't want to lose him too, so I gripped his hand. If I was latched on to him they wouldn't be able to separate us.

"Let go of my hand, Nut-Head," Steve murmured, trying to pull his hand away, but I just tightened my clutch. He looked down at me, his eyebrows drawn down in annoyance, but the expression softened just a little when he saw my face. "Don't tell me you're scared," he accused. "You're such a girl."

"Steve, that's child services come to take us away. What if they split us up and put us in separate foster homes? What if we never see each other again? What if we never see Mom and Dad again?"

"They won't do that," he said firmly. "Just calm down."

Officer Kripke appeared at the cell door at that very moment, shadowed by a woman in a black pencil skirt and jacket, white blouse, and sensible, worthless heels. In one hand she held a PDA, poised just above her waist like it was her natural position for holding things, and a hands free earpiece was attached to her ear. Her blonde hair was plastered to her head, and scraped back into a tight, headache inducing bun. The word severe came to mind.

"Stephen, Regina," Officer Kripke greeted. "Good to see you're awake already. Unfortunately we are still unable to contact your parents, we tried everything we could." As he unlocked our cage, he continued, "You'll be going with Emily for now, and we'll continue to try and find your parents." He beckoned for us to come out and together we reluctantly got to our feet, trudging across the distance that seemed a great deal longer than it had last night. "Don't worry. Everything is going to be alright."

We followed the woman out to the parking lot without a word from any of us, and climbed into the back of the sedan she indicated while she slid behind the wheel. Not once had I been more than ten seconds without Steve's hand in mine when we reached an unassuming looking building fifteen minutes later. Call me a wuss, but I needed to know that he was there and not leaving my side. I'd already had to deal with most of last night by myself and I wasn't going to endure an undetermined length of time at this place without him.

"Kent will show you to where you'll be staying," the woman announced as we stepped into a lobby, surprising me with her Australian accent. "If you need anything just ask him. We want you to be comfortable."

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_Guess what you need to do now! REVIEW!_


	6. Chapter 6

_Sorry it's taken a couple days to get this chapter up, but I had work and rehearsals and a long and laborious performance at the Mayor's Carols by Candlelight, and by the time all that was through I just felt like sleeping. So I did. But the chapter is here now, so don't worry._

**Chapter 6**

I sat in a chair at the small table in our 'quarters', staring at the door, willing someone to come in and explain that it had all been a misunderstanding; that Mom and Dad had been out all night looking for us and hadn't realised that their phones were flat before they passed out in bed upon arriving home early this morning. I wanted them to tell me that they were on their way over here right now and that we'd be home in twenty minutes listening to a lecture on teen drinking and under aged driving from Dad while Mom baked cookies and assured us she was worried sick. But nothing happened.

"What if they were in a car crash?" I asked aloud, not taking my eyes off the door.

A short distance away, Steve was perched on the edge of the suede three seater lounge, an x-box controller in hand as he jabbed the buttons and yelled at the massive television screen simultaneously, making his character pound the living daylights out of another computer animated person in the boxing ring. He'd been at it ever since Kent had brought it in for him, I like to think he was taking his frustration at the situation out on imaginary foes, but at the same time I was afraid he had simply adapted to the fact that we were apparently staying here for the time being, and as such required extensive gaming time. I'd interrupted his boisterous displays on several occasions with my what ifs, and each time he'd simply shrugged them off with ease. It was beginning to bug me.

"What if you shut up for a while?" he countered, now raising his elbow as he smashed his thumb into the buttons with extra force, like he expected his force to be transferred to the actions of the character on the screen.

"I'm serious Steve," I implored, standing and crossing the carpeted distance between the kitchenette area and the living/sleeping space. Without even a moment's hesitation I stood directly between my brother and the screen, eliciting a frustrated groan as he threw his hands in the air. "What if Mom and Dad were in an accident?"

Admitting defeat, he tossed the controller onto the coffee table in front of me and collapsed back against the couch cushions. "They would have told us something like that," he reasoned on a sigh that sounded so much like our mother.

"Would they?" I asked, taking a seat on the small table across from him. "Would Detective Olivia Benson tell the children that one of their parents was dead and the other in a coma?"

"You didn't mention death and comas before, Reggie," he said. "And what does SVU have to do with this?"

"We're in child protective custody," I pointed out, waving my hands around to take in the well equipped, self contained room we'd been shown to over ten hours ago. There were four twin beds and a cupboard that held a range of board games as well as a bunch of dolls and toy cars. The chest of drawers in the corner contained a variety of clothing sizes should we wish to bathe and change clothes, which I was sorely tempted to do, but at the same time refused to do because in my head I was hoping that we wouldn't be here long enough that the spare clothes would become a necessity. It was obvious, though, that for all them wanting us to be comfortable, they didn't want us exploring the building at large; why else would they provide us will a fully stocked kitchenette, a bathroom and all the entertainment we could want if we were between the ages of five and twelve. "Our parents, as far as we know, are missing. And we're a couple of teenagers. Pretty sure that qualifies us as special victims."

"No, it qualifies us as paranoid. They're not telling us anything because they don't _know_ anything, not because they think we're sensitive little flowers that can't handle bad news about our parents," Steve explained. "So will you just take a pill and shut up for, like, ten minutes? I have a headache and you're not helping."

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him. "I'm sure all the shouting and concentrating on the screen you were just engaged in was doing it _wonders_," I muttered under my breath as I sank down onto the cushion at the other end of the couch, leaving the two foot buffer of space between us, in case he decided I wasn't being quiet enough and found the need to give me a noogie. I'd no sooner sat down than he was on his feet, making his way to the small bathroom. I heard the tap running and a cupboard door opening and closing, followed by a muffled curse.

"Not a single aspirin in this joint," he announced upon returning to the main room, where he continued to rummage through the cupboards in the kitchen area. "It's like they don't trust us or something."

"They're job is to take care of us, they're not gonna leave a bunch of medication lying around for us to accidentally or accidentally on purpose overdose on," I reasoned.

"Why would we accidentally-on-purpose overdose on aspirin?" Steve questioned, as he leaned his elbows on the counter top. "That's just stupid."

"Some kids don't like being held against their will," I shrugged. "They do stupid stuff that leads to them either dead or in hospital with a less vigilant watch."

I wasn't watching him anymore, so I missed the light bulb that I'm sure switched on above his head as he had an idea. But the next thing I knew he was beside me on the couch with an excited look on his face. "You're allergic to nuts, right?" he whispered. Utterly confused by his question, because he knew damn well that I was absolutely _not_ allergic to nuts, I gave him my best furrowed brow expression. He wiggled his eyebrows at me suggestively and repeated in a conspiratorial tone, "You're _allergic _to _nuts_, right?"

"You want me to fake an allergic reaction?" I interpreted.

"Hallelujah!" he praised. "She gets it."

"If I was allergic to nuts, wouldn't I know to steer clear of any nut based products?"

Steve rolled his eyes. "So maybe it's not nuts. Maybe the laundry detergent they used on the spare clothes gives you a really bad itch."

"Okay," I said slowly. "Once we have Kent's attention, then what?"

"We have to convince him to get you to the hospital before you go into anaphylactic shock," he informed me easily. "Seriously, he'd rush you straight out of here. I'd insist on coming with because I know at least part of your medical history. And he wouldn't argue because this is a time sensitive situation. You dig?"

"I dig," I agreed. "When?"

He glanced over his shoulder to the microwave in the kitchen where the glowing green numbers showed it was after six o'clock in the evening. "We should wait at least another hour," he suggested. "Most of the staff are bound to go home for the night leaving only the essentials in the building. We'd have a better chance at pulling a fast one on them."

"Right," I said and at that moment my stomach decided to remind me of its presence. I hadn't eaten much of anything since we'd been here and my pizza last night was a long time ago, so I wasn't surprised by the way it was growling now. Judging by the slight chuckle Steve gave as he brushed his straight brown hair back off his forehead, neither was he.

"I'm gonna go complain to Kent that we're hungry," he informed me, getting to his feet with a tap of my knee. "If he has any sense at all he'll feed that beast of yours quick smart."

I nodded, finding comfort in the old joke about my vocal stomach and the monster it contained, but it also made me miss Mom and Dad just that little bit more. Mom would have defended my rumbling stomach as hers joined in a growling chorus with it, while Dad's teasing laughter accompanied Steve's. I pulled my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them protectively as I waited for Steve to convince Kent to get us some food.

He was taking an awfully long time. Last time Steve had stuck his head out to request some soda he was back on the couch within a minute while Kent went to find a vending machine or whatever. Now, he'd been standing at the door with his head out in the hall for a full minutes and still I hadn't heard him utter a word. Perhaps there was no one stationed outside our room anymore and we should try to make a break for it? I was about to go to his side and suggest it, when he spoke up, requesting some kind of dinner type substance so that we didn't end up starving to death on his watch.

Steve met my gaze as he returned to the couch once more, sitting just as close as he had when suggesting the peanut allergy. "I just overheard Kent and that Emily woman talking," he explained in a hushed tone. "They said something about following the 'next step in the contract' and 'contacting Mr. Thumbkin'."

"And?" I asked.

"And doesn't the fact that they're referring to a contract seem a little odd to you?" he snapped. "Why would they have a contract concerning us if they just picked us up this morning to take care of us while they worked with the police to find our parents?"

"How do you know they were talking about a contract about us?" I countered.

"I didn't want to tell you this because I didn't want you to worry any more than you already were," he said, staring at the coffee table and the empty coke can he'd left there. "But I was thinking that it's pretty strange that they've pretty much shoved us in this room and made no effort to talk to us all day. If they really _were_ child protective services, don't you think they would have sent a counsellor or something in to talk to us and make sure we're all right?"

I couldn't argue with that logic; it made too much sense, but it did make me ask an even bigger question. "If they're not Child Protective Services, who or what are they?" I asked in a voice so small I wasn't sure it even sounded.

Steve squeezed my knee absently, the way Dad sometimes did when his thoughts drifted away during a conversation. "I don't know, Reg," he said. "But I'm not sure I want to stick around to find out. We've gotta get out of here tonight. We'll go with the allergic reaction plan for now, but keep your martial arts lessons in mind as a backup. And if you see the opportunity to run, take it. Don't worry about me. You just get yourself out and try find Mom and Dad. Or help."

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_Will Steve's master plan work? Review to find out._


	7. Chapter 7

_You have noooooo idea how EXCITED I am about this chapter! I've been waiting for this moment for aaaages. And what makes it better? It practically wrote itself! So go ahead and read it!_

**Chapter 7**

_Fifth Floor Office, Rangeman Building, Trenton, New Jersey_

The large, black man sat behind the desk he'd called his own for the last almost seventeen years, slowly working his way through the mountain of paperwork that arrived in his inbox each day. His back ached the long hours spent hunched over the pages, the special support cushion tucked between his back and the chair doing nothing to relieve the strain. With one last pen stroke, he closed the current file folder he was working on and set it in the outbox before leaning back in the chair, stretching so that the chair tilted backwards in an attempt to ease the discomfort caused by extended periods in the same position. It was looking like he was going to need to make another appointment with his chiropractor.

It had been a long time since he'd enjoyed a day without having to stare at paperwork and in recent years it had only seemed to multiply. Over time, more and more separate forms had needed to be introduced as they hired new staff and the common sense of do this, fill out this form slowly died out. Sure, the rookies were okay at their jobs, but they had trouble deciphering their paperwork, which unfortunately, was where Tank came in, making sure everything was filled out properly and filed in the right area.

He glanced at the clock beside the computer monitor noting the late hour; it was already well after six in the evening. No wonder he was aching so much, he'd been sitting there for almost an extra hour. Sighing, he pushed back from the desk and made to stand, levering himself from the cushy office chair slowly and carefully so as not to aggravate the pain he was already enduring. He'd just made it to the door that lead to the communications floor at large when the phone on his desk began to ring.

"Rangeman," he said by way of greeting, stifling a yawn as he leaned against the desk.

"Good evening," came an unfamiliar female voice through the ear piece. Tank was certain he had never heard the voice before as he would have remembered such a sweet drawling Australian accent. "I'm trying to get in contact with a Mr. Thumbkin," she explained.

Tank's entire body froze, even his organs halting in their processes at the sound of that name. He certainly hadn't been expecting it, especially after so long. Thumbkin had been the code word Ranger had put in place upon discovering that his wife was pregnant. If the word was inserted into a message of conversation Tank would know that Ranger was in trouble and was unable to ensure the safety of Stephanie and the baby. His instructions were to get them to a safe house has quickly as possible and stay there with them until Ranger contacted him with another code word to let him know that the danger had passed and the coast was clear. But that was – he did some quick calculations – about eighteen years ago. And then, of course, there was the tragedy...

"Sir?" the woman prompted impatiently, pulling Tank out of his wandering thoughts. "Is Mr. Thumbkin available?"

"Yes, speaking," he confirmed quickly.

"Brilliant," she said. "I'm supposed to ask for a code phrase to confirm that I have the real Mr. Thumbkin," she explained. "So if you could give me that now we'll get right down to business."

"Brilliant crystal blue,  
Chaos curling all around.  
Always, I'll protect."

Even after all this time, Tank had trouble not rolling his eyes as he recited the Haiku. He'd never gotten the point of poetry. A bunch of metaphors and other figurative language mashed together in an indecipherable list of short statements. And this one didn't even rhyme! But he understood the reason for forming the code phrase in such a way. No one would ever expect it of such burly, physical men.

"Perfect," The woman confirmed over the faint sound of rustling paper. "My name is Emily Strong and I work for Safe and Sound, the company that provides security for the home of one Mr. Carlos Ricardo Garcia. From the extensive file of conditions and instructions Mr. Garcia has provided us with I am lead to believe that you are a close personal friend of himself and his wife. Is this correct?"

Frustrated by the woman's wordiness and apparent inability to cut to the chase, Tank ground out a single word response: "Yes."

"I assume, then that you are familiar with the Garcia's children, since he lists you as their emergency contact should they be beyond reach without prior warning for a period of forty-eight hours.

He grunted his agreement, feeling that she was waiting for a response of some kind.

"Well, sir," she continued. "It is my duty to inform you that Mr. And Mrs. Garcia have now been out of contact for somewhere between thirty-six and fifty hours. We have gained custody of the children and are currently working with local police to locate their parents. In the meantime, my file states that I should contact you. The children are to be released into your care at the earliest possible convenience to you."

Tank was nodding through her entire, extended speech, having already inferred a great deal of the situation from the very fact that he had received this phone call. He was agreeing merely to get her to move on and give him the information he needed – the where's and how's of the pick up – when his mind caught on one essential word she had used several times throughout.

"Sorry," he interjected as she took a breath to start up again. "Did you say chil-_dren_?"

"Of course," she replied easily. "Stephen Carlos and Regina Guadalupe Garcia. Is there a problem?"

"It's just been a while," he answered, trying to wrap his head around this information. Not only had Steph and Ranger apparently _not_ died in that car explosion seventeen years ago with their eleven month old son, but they had had another baby. A daughter. Unbidden, warmth washed through his chest and he couldn't help but smile. "Where are they now?" he asked, feeling an energy he hadn't felt in years rush through him in anticipation. "I'll be there as soon as is humanly possible."

Tank listened carefully as Emily rattled off the address for the security company in Colorado, quickly jotting it down on the notepad he kept by the phone before thanking the woman for her call and hanging up.

He stared at the names he'd scribbled down at the bottom of the page in amazement. _Stephen Carlos _and _Regina Guadelupe_. The knowledge that they weren't dead, but instead had added to their family sent an oddly thrilling tingle down his spine and he snatched up the phone again.

"Grab your emergency duffle bag and meet me in the main conference room at Rangeman," Tank commanded Lester when he picked up on the fourth ring. "Call Hal and Cal and get them to do the same."

"What's wrong?" he asked immediately.

"I'll explain when we're all gathered," Tank responded shortly and hung up in true Rangeman style – without saying goodbye. Next he called Bobby with the same instructions before dialling the leader of the active team. Bear. As the years had dragged on, Tank and the original Rangemen had been forced to slowly relinquish more and more of the physical responsibilities to the newer, younger members of the team. While they still got involved in the occasional, less physically demanding jobs, they now acted for the most part, as coaches for the group of men in their late twenties and early thirties who did most of the leg work. This group was now known as Core Two – Core _One_ being Tank and the rest of the original team Ranger had put together.

Bear answered on the first ring, just like always, with a short, "Speak." He wasn't exactly the most verbally, pleasing person to talk to, but he got the job done, reminding Tank of a younger, more enthusiastic version of himself.

"Core One is going out of town," Tank informed him crisply. "I'm trusting you to take care of business back home."

"With all due respect, Sir," Bear said, covering up a derisive snort. "Your band of bumbling misfits is hardly equipped to get any kind of job done. I ask that you consider relinquishing this mission to the more able bodied Core Two."

Tank should have known the man would pull something like this, he'd been angling to get Core One permanently disbanded and retired ever since being promoted to his current leadership role. "Look, boy, this mission has origins that date back to when you were still in school. Core One is better equipped now than Core Two could be in a week. We'll be taking this ourselves."

"Then I insist you allow me to assist," he responded at once.

"And who would I leave in charge here if you're with me?" Tank prompted.

After a moment's consideration, Bear suggested. "Zero in administration and Sanchez is more than capable of heading up Core Two in my absence."

Since time was of the essence, Tank conceded temporary defeat. "Meet me in the main conference room ASAP. I'll decide then."

Lester, Bobby, Hal, Cal and Bear were gathered around the conference table half an hour later, their duffle bags stacked in an orderly pile by the exit for a clean get away should the situation call for it. It had been a while since the four 'oldies' had been called to assemble so abruptly and as such were anxious for Tank to arrive so they could find out what the hell was going on.

"Do you know anything about this?" Lester asked of Bear who was seated directly across from him.

"No more than you," he replied in that grizzly tone he always seemed to get when talking to members of Core One. "It's an old case, though, so maybe you know more than me."

"We didn't know it was an old case," Bobby pointed out.

"What else do you know?" Cal asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion as he leaned both elbows on the table.

"It's out of town," Bear shrugged, but I gather you already assumed as much, given the need for luggage.

"That's it?" Lester prompted.

"Scouts Honour," he said sarcastically giving them the finger where one would usually hold up the three fingers for a scout's salute.

"How _dare_ you sully the scouting tradition with your blatant disrespect," Hal fumed, both hands flat on the table as he hauled himself to his feet.

"Settle down, Hal," Tank commanded breezing through the door and dumping his own pre-packed duffle on the pile. "I'm sure your surgeon would love to do another knee reconstruction for you, but I need you ready for action right now, not three months time."

"I could have taken him," Hal muttered bitterly, sinking back down into his chair. "There's more to me than a bung knee, you know."

"Of course there is," Bobby agreed. "You're the old man with the cane."

"Dude, I'm younger than you," Hal pointed out. "And I hardly ever need the cane anymore."

"Dude, no one says _dude _anymore," Lester retorted.

"You just did," Cal said.

"I was making a point," he defended. "Of just how ridiculous it sounds."

"Enough!" Tank exclaimed. "We need to focus."

Bear shook his head, a smirk attempting to bloom on his face. "I think you_ need_ me to come, Tank," he commented. "These idiots will be too busy arguing with each other to get anything done."

Tank sent him a look that could only be interpreted as _Shut up or get out_ before addressing the group. "Tonight, I received a call from a security company in Colorado," he began.

"We're going on a field trip?" Cal asked excitedly.

"Indeed we are," Tank confirmed. "And if you'd all stop interrupting for a few moments I'll give you the low down." He paused, making sure that no one was going to speak. "We will be going to Colorado to take into our care two teenagers. Stephen Carlos Garcia and his younger sister Regina Guadelupe Garcia."

The men nodded their understanding in unison as Tank watched the four members of his team for signs of recognition. He didn't want to simply come out and announce that Ranger and Steph were alive. He wanted to see realisation dawn on their faces as they noted the similarity between Stephen Carlos Garcia and the small boy they'd all been enthralled with years ago by the name of Carlos Esteban Manoso. The pause dragged on and Bear began drumming his fingers against the table top impatiently. Tank's attention went from blank face to blank face, and these weren't the normal not-gonna-show-emotion blank faces, they were the no-idea-why-you've-paused-so-long blank faces.

"Stephen Carlos," Tank repeated. "His middle name is Carlos, his first name is eh... Stephen?"

Nothing. Not a single morsel of recognition for any of them.

"He's about seventeen or eighteen now," he added. "He was born in Trenton about eighteen years ago?" When the men remained impassive, he dropped his hands to his sides in frustration. "Nothing? Steph and Ranger are still alive as far as I can tell and we need to go take care of their kids and try to find them!"

"No way!" Hal exclaimed, lurching to his feet.

"I thought they died in that explosion," Cal said

Lester gave him a deadpan look. "Did you _really_ believe that, Cal?"

Bobby waved his hands over the middle of the table, grabbing everyone's attention. "Wait a second guys," he said. "We're missing a vital point here." He pointed to Tank, squinting his eyes just a little. "Are you telling me that all these years there's been a Range_Girl_ out there that we didn't know about?"

"That is exactly what I am saying, Bobby," Tank said, relief filling his senses. "And right now she and her brother need us."

"Then what are we waiting for?!" Lester exclaimed. "Let's go get 'em!"

* * *

_Back to Reggie and Steve next chapter. But don't forget to review._


	8. Chapter 8

_So I just started reading Kresley Cole's latest Immortals After Dark novel, "Shadow's Claim" and I'm really enjoying it. Unfortunately for you, though, it is the reason it took me a couple days to get the next chapter up. It will likely continue to prevent me from writing. And also, I will be going away to spend next week up the coast. Sooo... if I don't update again before next weekend, I apologise in advance. You'll just have to savour this one._

**Chapter 8**

"Could you do something?" Steve asked; eyes glued to the television as he attempted to defeat yet another computer generated opponent. It had been at least two hours since we'd finished dinner and I was starting to get nervous. I'd never even contemplating doing anything like what Steve had proposed for tonight. I mean, sure I'd complained about feeling sick to get out of something horrible at school – like science exams – but Dad always saw straight through me, so I'd stopped trying. Now Steve was relying on me to create the diversion we needed to get out of this place. Maybe I'd be less worried if I had some successful practice in the field.

"Like what?" I asked, thinking he had something in particular that he thought needed to be done before our escape. His reply, though, reminded me that while we needed to work as a team for the time being, he was still my hateful older brother, intent on having me out of his hair by any means possible. Especially if it meant making me feel unwanted.

"Don't know, don't care," he said shortly, tapping the buttons on his controller. "Just stop staring at me. You're creeping me out."

"I sighed heavily, letting him know that having him as a brother was truly a burden, and made my way over to the dresser in the corner to see if I could find a suitable outfit to wear to bed, but that wouldn't look terribly out of place running through the streets in the middle of the night. I ended up selecting a pair of black yoga pants and a t-shirt a size or two too big, before making my way to the bathroom to investigate the soaps they had provided. I knew from friends that body washes that contained soap could sometimes cause itching and other kinds of skin irritation, and while I'd never experienced such a misfortune, it was to be the fuel for my fake itch. And if they didn't believe that, I'd add to it with a complaint about potentially-harsher-than-I-was-used-to laundry detergent. And the air conditioning. I could spin it all out into a claim that I had extremely sensitive skin and it felt like my skin was burning from the combination.

After gathering all the intelligence I needed, I returned to where Steve still sat on the edge of the couch, playing video games. He listened while I explained my theory, nodding and grunting his agreement and told me to go gets started on it while he finished the level he was on.

So I did.

I showered using foreign soap, got dressed in clothing that had been washed in foreign detergent and returned to the main room, idly scratching my forearm as I contemplated how badly I needed to scratch myself in order for the man guarding the door to believe me. I deliberately left long red nail marks down the length along with shorter, more agitated looking scratches running in every other direction.

To aid in my act, I thought of the time I'd fallen into a patch of ants and had been unable to climb to my feet, remembering the sensation of the little insects crawling all over me as I attempted to get up.

I clawed at my legs, lifting dry skin that I hadn't bothered to exfoliate away or moisturise, assuming it would add to the effect.

"Reggie, don't scratch," Steve said suddenly, pulling me from my thoughts. I glared at him, trying to understand why he would want me to stop when the whole plan was based on my need to scratch.

"Why not?" I demanded through gritted teeth as I ran my nails down my neck. "I'm _itchy_," I added pointedly.

"Mom always says not to scratch," he replied loudly, jerking his head toward the door that lead to the hall. "She says if you scratch you'll break the skin and end up with nasty infections and scars," he continued, taking a few steps toward the door.

"But if I stop scratching it feels like I'm being eaten alive by a million, tiny, flesh eating parasites," I exclaimed in my best forlorn tone, realising he was staging this conversation to get the attention of the man on the other side of the door could hear. "It's so itchy."

"I know!" Steve retorted. "What does Mom usually do?"

"What's going on in here?" Kent asked, throwing open the door to stand in entry, eyeing us. We'd been relatively quiet the entire time we'd been here, so naturally an outburst of noise from within the room had caught his attention.

"My sister can't stop scratching," Steve explained hurriedly. "She's itching all over."

"So take a shower," Kent suggested with a shrug as he went to close the door again. I shook my head, though, keeping him in the room.

"I think the shower was part of the problem," I moaned, dragging my hand across my stomach in a rigid, claw-like position. "Sometimes different soaps make me itchy."

His gaze widened slightly as he took in the state of my exposed skin: red and raw and, in places, flaky. I could tell it alarmed him, which meant the plan was working.

"What does Mom usually do?" Steve repeated urgently, his face taking on an expression of concern I was not used to seeing. I continued scratching, needing to keep up the appearance that I was doing so without conscious thought as I tried to think up a response. "Reg?" he prompted after another moment, pulling my hands away from my body, leaving me squirming to reach my supposed itchy spots.

"It's been years since I had a reaction like this," I said balefully. "We're always so careful. I don't remember exactly what she does."

"What about that lotion Mom keeps in the bathroom cupboard?" he suggested, trying to sound helpful. "Doesn't that help?"

"Sometimes," I nodded.

"What's it called?" Kent demanded, seizing on a solution. "I'll get Saunders to get you some."

Shaking my head mournfully once more, I admitted, "I don't remember." Then, meeting Steve's gaze as I squeezed out some tears, I whimpered, "It's burning, Steve!"

He pulled me into a rare hug as I hiccoughed out a sob – or at least I hoped it _sounded_ like a sob – and rubbed my back soothingly. "I know, Reggie," he murmured. "I just wish I'd paid attention to what Mom and Dad did when you get like this. I never thought we'd ever be in a situation like this."

When he released me a moment later, I resumed tearing frantically at the skin of my forearms, digging my nails in as hard as I could bear. The next think I knew there was a sharper pain scraping down my arm and my fingertips were wet. I dragged my hand away slowly, turning my gaze to the moisture and let out a strangled cry at the blood I saw there. I'd never meant to go that far, but it certainly helped to kick Kent into action.

He retrieved a clean handkerchief from his pocket and rushed forward, pressing the cloth to my self-inflicted wound. "Hold this," he instructed me sternly. "And don't scratch any more."

"But it's itchy!" I beseeched.

Rather than respond to my complaint, Kent speared Steve with a hard gaze. "Make sure she doesn't scratch, and follow me."

"Where are we going?" Steve asked, his arm around my shoulders as he urged me down the hall after Kent. "Should we go home and get that cream?"

Kent shook his head as he pushed open a set of double doors. "I can't take you home," he said apologetically, holding the door open for Steve to lead me through. We were now on our way across the lobby we'd come through that morning, heading for the doors that lead to outside. "I'll take you to the emergency room," he explained. "Someone there will know what to do."

Steve nodded, slapping my hand away as I reached for my neck. Neither of us was going to point out that we'd likely be made to wait hours to be seen to at the hospital, because we planned to be gone before we ever reached the waiting room.

I kept attempting to scratch as Kent lead us to a station wagon, opening the back door for Steve and I to get in before sliding into the front seat, essentially leaving us unsupervised.

"Now?" I murmured softly.

"Too far from anywhere we know," he muttered, pushing me toward the door. "He has the advantage. Wait until we get to the hospital. The moment he pulls into a parking space we'll spring from the car and run."

"Okay."

The moment we were in and buckled, Kent was roaring out of the lot, dialling on his phone at the same time.

"Emily," he said quickly as I started rubbing and hitting at my flesh instead of scratching. "Regina Garcia is having an allergic reaction to the soap in their quarters. I'm taking her to emergency." He paused, listening. "She tore through her skin with her own fingernails as she scratched, Emily. People don't fake that."

Fifteen minutes later, Kent pulled the car into the ambulance drive through, right at the entrance and we were forced to abandon our original plan for escape, following the man into the emergency room and up to the nurse's station to get forms to fill out. I looked to Steve, a question shining in my eyes but he just shook his head slightly, his brow furrowed as he gazed around the familiar waiting room. We'd spent a considerable amount of time in this hospital growing up. Between the time I'd gotten violently ill and couldn't stop vomiting, when I had my tonsils and adenoids out, when Steve had been hit in the head with a rock and had to be kept in for observations, and all the times Mom had needed stitches or other such medical attention – she was quite incredibly accident prone – we'd treated the complex as a massive playground, seeking out all the adventures two children could.

If anyone could find an escape route in this hospital is was Steve. We'd played hide and seek for hours and I'd always lost.

* * *

_How will they get away? Review and let me know what you think._


	9. Chapter 9

_Good news two fold, of faithful readers of my merry musings. First: I survived the apocalypse! Second: You are very fortunate that I did not pack enough reading material to last the entire week I was away on vacation, so I had to resort to writing for the last day. As a result, I have this chapter, so I guess I'll post it for you. How does that sound?_

**Chapter 9**

"It's gonna be house before we're seen," I moaned, attempting to sound forlorn as I idly scratched my leg. I travelled my gaze around the packed emergency room, pausing on each injured or ill person and surmising that even if my current condition _wasn't_ fake, we'd be so low on the priority we'd practically be on the floor. It was probably a good thing though, since it gave Steve and me ample time to figure out our escape.

Speaking of Steve, he was sprawled between two waiting chairs across the aisle, his feet propped on one while his upper body sagged in the other. He was the picture of boredom, appearing utterly indifferent and tired. "Relax, Reggie," he said on a yawn that was either award winning in its replication of actual yawns or genuinely authentic. "Just try not to scratch."

I rolled my eyes at his suggestion, taking in his body language as I did so in case he was trying to send me a silent message. Otherwise, why speak at all? It wasn't in his nature to just sprout words willy-nilly, a trait he got from Dad. Generally, Steve was quite reserved. "Right," I said sarcastically. "Don't scratch. Easy for you to say, you're not the one being eaten alive by invisible bugs."

Now it was Steve's turn to roll his eyes. "Well if Kent would just take us home like I suggested we could get your special lotion and be done with it," he pointed out, sounding every bit the irritated older brother he was.

"I can't do that," Kent explained once again, though neither of us paid him any attention. Steve was in the process of stretching out into what I assumed was supposed to be a more comfortable position. And my eyes were fixed on Steve's hands as they formed a sign I was very familiar with.

We'd both learned a fair amount of sign language in our childhood from our next door neighbour. It all started the two summers before I was to start school. Steve and I had been in back yard, kicking a ball at – yes _at_, not _to_ – each other when he accidentally sent it flying over the high fence into the neighbouring yard.

When we'd told Mom about it, she'd gazed calmly over the top of her novel she was reading and informed us that we'd just have to go and ask for it back. And that was the long and short of it; _we_ had to do it_ ourselves_. For all their talk of stranger danger our parents were quite adamant that they didn't need to coddle us or even hold our hands to make sure we'd be safe. The most Mom had done that day was stand on the porch and watch us as we made our way over to the front door of a stranger.

The next day the same thing happened: Steve kicked the ball over, we went over to retrieve it, the kind woman smiled and showed us to the backyard. The third day the woman had stepped out onto the porch and waved to Mom, beckoning her over. Naturally, we'd started preparing ourselves for the worst, expecting the woman to tell Mom that she needed to control us and what not because she was sick of us wanting to get our bal back.

We were wrong.

Instead the woman, whose name we learned was Mrs. Reynolds, invited us inside to her kitchen where a girl, roughly ten years of age, sat plaiting her long, blonde pigtails. I remember envying her straight, golden locks and the way they seemed to obey her without fail. My rambunctious curls would never do such a thing. When she looked up and smiled, revealing a row of purple capped braces, Mrs Reynolds introduced us all, moving her hands in intricate patterns as she spoke. My four year old mind likened the combination to a witch casting a spell, and as such, I'd been more than a little apprehensive. It took both Mrs. Reynolds and my own mother patiently explaining that the girl, Mary couldn't hear and she used the hand actions to understand what people were saying before I finally calmed down and allowed Mrs. Reynolds to usher me into the seat beside her daughter.

While Mom and Mrs. Reynolds bonded over tea and biscuits, Steven and I tried enthusiastically to lean some of Mary's cool, silent language. Between her extensive collection of flash cards, a notepad and pen, and repeated slow demonstrations from both Mary and her mother, Steve and I came away from that afternoon with the ability to introduce ourselves in sign. We'd also made a new friend and as such spent as much time as possible playing with her over the following weeks before Steve had to go back to school. We spent our days learning more and more of her way of communicating until we rarely needed help from her mother, or even the flash cards to a point, in order to understand.

Mary and Mrs. Reynolds had moved away just a couple of years later, but already, certain aspects of sign language had infiltrated our everyday lives, like when we were trying to communicate with each other in noisy crowds or across distances. We would automatically accompany our spoken words with sign at least for the important words.

One of the signs we used most often these days? Toilet. Which was what Steve was surreptitiously showing me know as he stretched his arms over his head. I had to believe it wasn't an accident, that he'd come up with a plan for escape that started with me announcing my need for a porcelain receptacle.

"I need to go to the bathroom," I said abruptly as I scratched the back of my neck. I flickered my gaze to Steve again looking for his approval and saw that he was signing 'sick'. "I don't feel too well."

Steve let out a long suffering sigh, but made no effort to move.

"I don't know where they are," Kent announced, glancing around for one of those "Toilet's this way" signs. "Do you want me to ask the nurse?"

Before I could so much a take a breath, Steve had hefted himself to his feet, grabbing my arm and dragging me up with him. "I'll take her," he said, sounding like he'd rather not.

"You know where they are?" Kent asked. When Steve nodded shortly, he agreed, adding, "I'll stay here in case they call you in. Come straight back."

"Sure," Steve tossed over his shoulder, steering me toward a set of doors on the other side of the room. When we'd passed through and were out of Kent's sight he immediately dropped my arm. "Oh my God," he uttered, pushing me in the shoulder to keep me moving down the hall. "I will never complain about your whining again," he informed me. "At least you usually shut up. That innocent, I'm-scared-help-me-what-do-I-do act you've been pulling seriously grating on my last nerve.

"What better way to make him believe my sob story than to play the helpless girl?" I pointed out. "It worked, so quit your belly aching and get us out of here. What's the plan?"

"The plan is, you get a head start. Make your way to the south exit; the one near the children's ward. Once you're out head toward the gas station on Fleet Street. Keep to the back streets and stay in the shadows at the back of the parking lot once you get there. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"We're splitting up?" I uttered dumbly.

"Only for a little while," he assured me, tucking a curl behind my ear like Dad usually did. "I'll make a distraction here and meet you at the service station. If I'm not there by," – he checked his watch – "Midnight, get somewhere safe and I find you when I'm free of Kent."

"Promise me you'll be all right," I demanded, frowning up at him with my hands on my hips.

To my surprise, Steve grinned back at me. "Lupe," he said, using Dad's pet name for me as he tried to affect a similar voice and accent to our father, "I'm fairly certain events like this is what Dad has been preparing us for our entire lives. All those 'games' he used to make us play? No one else I know plays hide and seek where the seeker is armed with a Nerf Gun and you're out of the next game if you get shot. Surely you've noticed he's a little unorthodox in his methods?"

"You think Dad's been getting us ready for something like this?" I asked.

"How many of your friends have survival month once a year at a moment's notice?" he countered, by way of proving his point. "I have a few theories on this, but I'll explain later. For now, run like the little wolf I know you are and remember Dad's games and parenting quirks. I'll buy you as much time as possible to get away before I follow."

* * *

_More soon maybe. It depends I how good you all are at reviewing and how long it takes me to wrap all these presents and make shortbread._


	10. Chapter 10

_While waiting to hold counsel with my sponsors on the topic of the new plot point that came to mind for You're Pretty Messed Up Too, I decided I should work on something else. You know? Make productive use of the time. So here's the latest chapter of Little Wolf, which comes to you _in spite_ of all the pestering and bugging Cut Myself Shaving has bombarded me with this afternoon. I hope you find it satisfactory._

**Chapter 10**

My attention was divided between the parking lot, the street and my watch as I perched on one of the large branches of the tree near the service station. It had taken me less time than I would have thought to get to the gas station Steve had mentioned so I'd spent nearly an hour sitting waiting for him to arrive, and biting my nails as the hands ticked closer and closer to midnight. I wouldn't stay even a minute passed the time he'd told me, because that's how stupid people got killed in the movies. "_If I'm not there by midnight get to safety._" Midnight comes and the idiot is all _"I'll give them five more minutes."_ And then BAM! Their head is rolling on the ground. No _thank _you. The moment the big hand gets up to the twelve I'll be out of the tree and running for... well, okay, I should have put a little more thought into my options just in case Steve didn't turn up, but in my defence this a really stressful situation and I really hoped he'd show in time.

One minute left.

I scooted back down the branch to the trunk of the tree and shimmied my way to the ground in preparation. With my back pressed to the tree I scanned the lot one more time as time ran out. Suppressing a sigh, I started down the street at a casual pace, not wanting to draw attention to myself – teen running through backstreets at midnight? _Hello Suspicion _– while I tried to work out the safest place to go. We had no point of contact for emergencies. No trusted adult we were supposed to go to in case something happened. I thought about calling a friend and seeing if I could crash at their place tonight, but figured no parent would agree to a sleepover after midnight.

I was considering just heading home when Dad's voice ran through my head. _The place you feel safest isn't always the safest place._ Right. Good advice, Dad. I really shouldn't go home despite always feeling safe there. So where should I go? Somewhere that was totally not obvious, but that Steve would probably think of so that we could reunite when he did eventually get free of Kent and the rest of child services.

As I turned the corner onto the next street, walking merely to keep moving as I had no set destination as of yet, movement at the other end of the road had me instinctively ducking into the space between a bin and a stoop, trying my damndest to blend into the shadows. After a few moments of silence, during which the paranoid thought that my breathing was getting louder plagued my mind, I peeked out of my hiding place and spied a man walking down the other side of the street. Broad shoulders, trim waist, lightly muscled, with floppy dark hair that had just a hint of a wave to it. He seemed to be peering into the shadows on my side of the street, so I quickly ducked back into the inky blackness of my little nook.

Holding my breath to listen closely, I heard footsteps approaching, getting nearer and nearer to where I was huddled, until suddenly they stopped. I couldn't see much from my little wedge of space, but I was fairly certain whoever it was was standing right in front of me.

"Reggie?" came Steve's questioning tone, and the breath that I had been holding was released from me with an audible whoosh. Next thing I knew his face was obscuring any light that had been filtering in through the gap between the stoop and the garbage can. "I knew I'd find you around here somewhere," he chuckled, reaching in a hand and fumbling to find my own where it was wrapped around my knees. He tugged gently, urging me to come out, which I did, because I was relieved to have him there. He was annoying and pig headed and sometimes mean, but he was my brother and right now, we were all we had. Our parents were mysteriously missing. We couldn't go back to our home because child services would likely look there for us. All we had was each other and the clothes on our backs. I didn't even have my phone with me, having forgotten to pick it up after my shower.

As I straightened, I gazed around the street, taking more notice of my surroundings than I had previously. I didn't recognise the street as anywhere in particular I would go if I needed safety, but Steve seemed to be gazing around smugly, like he'd known exactly where to find me.

"Where exactly is _around here?_" I asked, gesturing to the surrounding street.

"Still near the service station," he responded at once, dragging me to the end of the street he'd entered and pointing to the bright lights of the gas station just a block away. For all the walking I'd done in the last – watch check – forty five minutes, I'd only managed to get a block away from the meet venue. Dad would have pummelled me with a full clip of Nerf bullets if I'd pulled something like that during one of our games. That realisation seemed to solidify Steve's words from earlier in my mind: _events like this is what Dad has been preparing us for our entire lives._

"So what happens now?" I asked.

Steve shrugged and started leading the way down another street, heading away from the service station in a different direction. "Find somewhere safe to stay for the night," he suggested, leaving out the 'Duh' in deference to our situation. We both knew we'd have to spend more than the usual amount of time with each other, so it was best if we started putting aside our petty qualms and focusing on the bigger picture. Probably that was the reason Dad always teamed Steve an I together, so that we could learn to work as a team without bickering over every single decision. The whole thing made me wonder what kind of information Dad had that he hadn't told us all these years.

"Feeling safe doesn't mean we're safe," I paraphrased Dad's sage words of advice.

"Thanks for that, Dad," Steve said sarcastically. "So where are we supposed to go?"

"I don't know," I admitted, shoulders slumped as I trailed behind him. "That's why I didn't get far, I guess. I kept trying to think of safe places to hide, but all I could think of were places I felt safe, which prompted Dad's voice in my head."

Steve slowed, forcing me to walk beside him, and in the dim light from the street lamp a few yards away I could see he had a contemplative expression on his face. Clearly he had the same dilemma as I did coming up with a place that was safe for us to crash for the night but that we didn't necessarily feel safe. Because if we felt safe we were likely to let our guard down. And if we let our guard down we could end up right back where we started, which in no way helped us to find our parents, wherever they may be.

As a shadow appeared at the opposite end of the street I tensed, ready to run, but Steve pushed me onto my rear on the nearest stoop. As I stared up at him in confusion he hoisted himself up onto the low wall beside me, letting one foot hang down by my head. "What are you doing?" I whispered to him. "We should be hiding, it could be child services."

"With a grocery bag on one hip?" he shot back, reclining against the sloping section of the wall that ran parallel with the stairs. "Just look natural, okay?"

"Who goes grocery shopping at midnight?" I asked him.

"Who cares?" he replied. "We're a couple of kids hanging out after curfew."

"Right," I agreed as the woman turned into our street and I leaned my elbows on my knees, trying for casual or perhaps bored, I wasn't sure which. Steve pulled his phone from his pocket, fiddling with it in some way so that it was looked like he was texting someone. Neither of us spoke. I followed the woman's progress down the street with my eyes, leaning on my hand and trying to create an _I'd-rather-be-somewhere-else_ expression on my face.

The woman slowed to a stop when she reached the stoop we'd come to occupy, glancing between the pair of us in the low lighting cast by the sparse street lamps. "You look homeless," she informed us thoughtfully. "If I leave a saucer of milk for you on the stoop, are you likely to return night after night?"

"Uh..." I uttered ever so eloquently.

At the same moment Steve sent her a dubious look. "We're humans, not kittens, lady," he informed her.

"How about Cheetos then?" she enquired, retrieving a bag of orange food bats from her grocery bags. "If you need somewhere to stay tonight I have a couple of nice soft blankets I could lay on the floor for you by the fireplace," she added merrily, skipping up the steps and inserting a key into the front door.

Steve and I exchanged an incredulous look, each trying to silently gauge the other's opinion on the option of staying in this strange woman's apartment. "What if we're no good delinquents out on a murder spree?" Steve challenged, standing on the wall so that he towered over her.

"What if I'm a no good ... what's the adult version of a delinquent?" Lost in thought, she seemed to mutter to herself for a moment before exclaiming, "CRIMINAL! What if I'm a crim? A paedophile looking for a couple of new victims?" she countered merrily, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, "They're not just men anymore, you know?"

"Okay," Steve said, hopping down onto the stair beside me and pulling me to my feet. "I get what you're saying. We can't trust anyone in this day and age, right?"

She cocked her head to the side, contemplating us from the open doorway. "Actually, I was trying for people who are up to no good don't usually announce it... but I guess yours works too." Without even a moment's pause, she entered the row house, leaving the front door open behind her. Lights came on, spilling their glow through the front windows and the doorway and I looked up to Steve in question.

"What are you gonna do?" I asked quietly.

In answer, Steve stepped forward so that he was right at the threshold, peering into the strange – and this time I mean strange as in weird, not strange as in we didn't know her, though she was that as well – lady's house. I expected him to explain that we were on the run/hiding from people and needed a place to crash for the night, but before he could get the words out the woman's voice carried out to us.

"Here, little humans," she called. "Come and get the Cheetos!"

I leaned up on tip-toes to see over Steve's shoulder only to be met with the sight of the woman laying down a trail of cheetos on the floor, a bundle of blankets tucked under her arm as she apparently tried to coax us into her house. Chances are, she was certifiably insane, but something was telling me this was the solution to our current immediate problem of where we would go for the night. She had the fixings for safety – a roof over the head, a locked door, warmth, privacy, and amenities – but was unfamiliar (and weird) enough that we'd be kept on guard the entire time we were here. To me that spelled out a safe place that didn't make us feel inherently safe.

So I pushed Steve inside, following quickly behind him and shut the door pulling on the chain and throwing deadbolts I found on the inside. _Safe but not guaranteed,_ I assured myself, nudging my older brother further down the hall, to the room the cheetos lead to. We'd have to sleep in shifts.

* * *

_So what are you thoughts on this woman? Good? Bad? Other? Review to find out more about her._


	11. Chapter 11

_FINALLY! I have the chapter finished. You have no idea how many hours I spent staring at this chapter thinking "wwwwrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiitttt ttteeeeee" but it all worked out in the end. It sat half done for a few days. Then I wrote a conversation that I wanted to include and it sat in my notebook for a while longer. And then I got distracted by reading. BUT IT'S HERE NOW! So I'll stop rambling so you can read it._

**Chapter 11**

"If she shows us a cage or asks you to check the temperature on the oven we're out of here," Steve murmured as we came to the doorway of what appeared to be the living room. "I refuse to be Hansel and Gretel-ed."

"Good plan," I whispered back, watching as the woman arranged a bunch of large, square floor pillows in front of the empty fireplace before laying a couple of blankets over top.

"There," she said pleasantly, sprinkling a few more Cheetos onto the blanket. "Perfect!" She tapped the cushions lightly. "Don't be shy. Come sit down and tell Aunty Hannah what's wrong."

Steve didn't move, but it had been a long emotional day for me and I just wanted to rest a little in relative safety. I pushed past him into the room, intending to follow the woman's directions, and when he caught my hand to try stop me I simply tugged him along with me. We settled on either side of the pile of Cheetos, Steve scooping them up in one hand and surreptitiously sniffing them before shoving the whole handful in his mouth at once. I rolled my eyes at him. He was always eating. It was a wonder he wasn't the size of a house.

As the woman – Hannah, she said her name was – stepped up onto the arm of the couch and settled into horse-riding-type position upon it, one leg curled on the sofa cushion, the other dangling in the air on the other side, I travelled my gaze around the room. It felt like organised chaos. No two items in room matched. Even the sofa cushions were different sizes, one protruding over the edge of the frame and overlapping with its neighbour. On the side table at the other end of the sofa was a t-rex toy that had been painted solid turquoise, positioned so that it seemed to be attacking a hot pink stegosaurus. The curtain behind the sofa appeared to be comprised of silk scarves that had been sewn together. Strung around the picture rail was multi coloured lanterns. And there was a teddy bear head mounted on the wall above the fireplace.

The word eccentric came to mind.

"So how did you become homeless?"

"Our parents went missing so the police handed us over to child protective services, whom we escaped earlier tonight," Steve stated shortly, giving Hannah the gist without any of the details.

She nodded her understanding, idly braiding her long auburn tresses. "So did your parents give you names before they disappeared?"

"Reggie and Steve," I said simply.

Hannah looked from me to Steve and back several times before asking, "Who's who?"

I sighed. Clearly this woman was a few fries short of a happy meal, but she was kind enough to open her – mismatched – home to us for the night, so I wasn't going to say anything to upset her. We engaged in conversation for a few more minutes until she started yawning, at which point she gave us directions to the bathroom should we need it during the night before turning off the light and switching on the lanterns and leaving us to try and sleep.

"We should probably stay on guard just in case," I mentioned as I poked at the scratch on my arm, making sure it wasn't going to start bleeding again if I accidentally irritated it in my sleep.

"You're right," he agreed. "You get some rest, I'll take first watch and wake you up in a couple hours."

I settled down on the pallet Hannah had put together as he hefted himself to his feet and paced around the room. "What are you doing?" I asked him, feeling sleep wash over me now that I was horizontal and the adrenaline that had been coursing through my body all night had seeped out.

"Looking for something I can use as a weapon," he explained quietly. "Just in case."

That made sense. I folded one of the cushions over to create a more comfortable pillow and wedged it under my head as I curled on my side. With a yawn I pointed to the mantel piece above me. "Those candlesticks look pretty heavy," I suggested.

"Good spotting," he praised, stepping over me to grab the taller of the two. "Now go to sleep. I'll try think of a plan and we'll talk about it when we swap over."

"'kay," I murmured.

*o*

It had taken no time at all for Rangeman Core 1, plus Bear, to hop the company jet from New Jersey to Colorado. But now they had a dilemma. Transport. They weren't used to arriving somewhere and not having an appropriately black SUV waiting at the curb to pick them up and take them wherever they needed to go. The forethought on such matters had not been necessary in the past, so it had been overlooked on this occasion. Rangeman didn't have a Colorado office, though, so there was no way a company vehicle would be available for them to use during their stay.

"So hire a car," Bear suggested impatiently, pointing toward the car hire counter across the space. He was absolutely sick of listening to the old farts complain about the stiffness of their joints and the poor blood circulation in their legs. The plane trip, short though it may have been, had been almost enough for him to wish he hadn't come after all. But alas, it was clear that these morons needed his relative youthful energy to get through this – or for that matter, any – mission.

"We're after a couple of SUVs," Tank informed the woman behind the counter while the rest of the men stood around behind him, rubbing their various aches and pains. Except Bear. He was scanning the immediate surroundings for any signs of a threat.

"Not a problem," the woman said pleasantly, picking up a clip board and moving out from behind the desk. "Follow me and we'll get you all set up." No words were spoken as the heard of black clad men trailed behind the woman all the way out to the car lot. They passed all the sedans and town cars and headed straight for the trucks and SUVs at the back of the lot. Eventually she halted their progress beside a fire engine red SUV and looked back up at the large, bearded, black man with kind, helpful eyes. "Take your pick."

Lester eyed the selection carefully, taking in the veritable rainbow of colours. Red, blue, grey, tan. But not the shade he was used to. Looking around the lot at large he piped up, "Got anything in black?"

The woman glanced quickly around before consulting her clipboard briefly. "Not in SUVs," she apologised. "We do have a couple of black town cars though. And a black Suzuki Swift over in the corner."

Shaking his head, Lester took a step toward the woman, turning up the old charm on her. "That's not gonna work, beautiful," he whispered, leaning close. "What's your policy on customers painting cars?"

Taking several steps back, the woman sent a wide eyed expression around the group of men, clearly trying to decide whether they posed a threat and whether she could get to her manager before they did her any harm. Bear rolled his eyes and leaned against the nearest SUV, just waiting for the moment security turned up to escort them all away.

"I, uh, don't think we have a specific policy for that," she stammered, looking over her shoulder in an attempt to locate the nearest passerby. "But-."

"Brilliant," Lester announced. "Tank, you finish up here. Bobby and I will go grab some black spray paint."

Tank all but collapsed against the back of the SUV next to Bear, raising his eyes to the sky in a silent prayer of strength and courage. It had been years since they'd all banded together on a case or mission and he was beginning to remember why he was always reluctant to agree to the plan. Catching Tank's eye, Bear nodded his head toward Lester who was now arguing with Cal over the best paint for car detailing. His eyebrow twitched of its own accord, but the look in his eye seemed to beg for the chance to disable them all and call in Core 2 to take over.

During all this, the car hire woman had begun slowly backing away, her clipboard clutched over her chest protectively as she seemed to mutter something under her breath.

"Wait," Tank called out to her, lurching away from the vehicle. "They're just joking. We'll take the blue ones at the end of the line and I promise to keep them away from any paint."

She nodded, a little shell shocked, and started filling out the form on the top of her board. "Will you be paying for the extra insurance?" she asked.

Tank cast a glance over his shoulder to the men he'd dragged with him, inwardly grimacing at his decision. Sure, Ranger would probably want the men he trusted most to be the ones to work the case, but time had not been kind to the stability of their minds. Put all that instability in one place and it tends to get out of hand rather quickly. "I think that's for the best."

"Right," she agreed, scribbling furiously on the forms before holding the clipboard toward him. "Sign here," she prompted. He did as he was told and she took the board back, scribbling some more for a few moments before looking up into his eyes. "I'll need you to nominate one of the other men to be the primary driver of the second vehicle," she explained.

Without hesitation, Tank motioned Bear over. It seemed a small betrayal, not to trust one of the original Rangemen, but Bear was the only one not in on the paint argument, so he was the obvious choice.

Five minutes later, Bear was behind the wheel of a navy blue Honda CRV with Bobby in the shotgun seat, because he was just slightly quicker than Lester who was in the back, still complaining that their cars are supposed to be black.

"We wouldn't have this problem if we'd just agreed to drive here like I suggested," he grumbled.

Bobby sighed. "You know time is of the essence here, Les," he said, sounding exasperated. "The longer we take to get here the harder it is to find any trail Steph and Ranger may have left."

Bear through the indicator on as he reached the exit of the car lot, following Tank's lead ahead of them. "Plus, I refuse to spend that long listening to the five of you complaining about your sciatica," he muttered under his breath. So help him, he was going to kill someone on this mission, and the odds were it was going to be the man in the back seat.

* * *

_I know you all heart you som Merry Man appearances, so y'all need to send in your appreciative reviews. Pretty Please. _


	12. Chapter 12

_I don't actually have that much to say today. Isn't that unusual? I guess I could tell you about how I planned for so much more to happen this chapter, but then things started taking up a lot more words so more than half of those scenes never happened. But at least I have stuff planned for the next couple of chapters now :D_

**Chapter 12**

I awoke disoriented, as I always did when sleeping in places other than my own bed. The ambiance of the room was in no way familiar, nor were the scents filling my nose as I mashed my face into my pillow to avoid the sunlight threatening to blind me if I decided to open my eyes. Steve's snoring reached my ears, louder than usual since it wasn't muffled by distance and doors and I bolted upright, the events of the last couple of nights flooding back to me in one massive tidal wave. I gazed around the brightly lit room, checking for threats before allowing my eyes to land solidly on Steve.

He was asleep.

And he hadn't woke me up for my watch.

Dad would have been so pissed.

Disentangling myself from the blanket wrapped around my legs, I clomped across the small amount of space between my makeshift bed and the couch, promptly sitting on his stomach and pinching his nose so that his eyes shot open with that deprived-of-oxygen look before he tipped me off onto the floor. As he sat up, gasping for air, I stood over him with my hands on my hips.

"You were sleeping," I accused.

"Resting my eyes," he countered on a grunt.

"Snoring," I added.

"It was a cover."

"Just admit your fell asleep, fart-breath."

"Goody! You're both awake!" came an overly excited voice from the doorway. I looked over just in time to see three braids bouncing against a pale green singlet as they travelled down the hall away from us. "I'll start on breakfast!" she called over her shoulder, swishing the long purple skirt she wore back and forth revealing bare feet under the expanse of fabric.

Steve lurched to his feet, stumbling in his usual morning manner toward the door without a word. I rolled my eyes at the back of his head, knowing that he was following the mention of food blindly. Probably, he'd eat anything she laid in front of us without so much as sniffing it to check for poisons. Pulling on my ballet flats – not the ideal footwear for being on the run, but I wasn't to know that when I put them on to go rescue Steve on Friday night – I traipsed out into the hall, following the clatter of pots and pans accompanied by a vague humming to the kitchen at the other end of the hall.

The woman – Hannah, I recalled the name she'd given last night – was bustling around grabbing food items from here and there and piling them in a frypan that sat on the bench. Steve stood in the middle of the room, watching her actions with a look of mild confusion on his face, a turkey leg hung loosely from his left hand. As I watched, Hannah climbed up onto a stool and began pouring milk into the blender beside the frypan. Once the blender was half full of the liquid she took a swig from the bottle and tucked it away into the cupboard in front of her.

The cupboard. Not the fridge. And she didn't even put the lid back on.

Next she started dropping the food items into the blender jug from the same height, giggling as the milk splashed over the sides. I caught sight of what was in the pan and moved closer, hoping she wasn't planning on dumping it all in the same concoction.

"Uh, Hannah?" I asked tentatively.

"_Auntie_ Hannah," she corrected.

"Right," I said. "Auntie Hannah, what are you putting together?"

"Breakfast smoothie," she replied merrily, dropping in a handful of nuts.

"What exactly goes into this breakfast smoothie?" I enquired, glancing over my shoulder to Steve who had taken a seat at the table with the turkey leg in front of him.

Hannah pushed an avocado into my hand without a word, then moved to the frypan and picked up a half grapefruit, dropping it in, skin and all. "Don't worry," she assured me. "It's just asparagus, pumpkin, grapefruit, some nuts, and a little bit of chocolate."

"Excuse me?!" I exclaimed, hoping I'd misheard. Or perhaps she was using some kind of slang I was unaware of.

"Don't complain," she said sternly, pointing a wooden spoon at me – God only knows where she'd pulled that from. "I took into consideration that you're just kids, so I have some gummy bears to sprinkle on top after."

"Asparagus?" I asked pointedly. "Pumpkin?"

"Vegetables for growing bodies," she sang out, clapping the lid on the blender and jumping off the stool. "Grapefruit because it's breakfast and that's what you're supposed to eat and breakfast. Nuts because-."

"She is," I heard Steve mutter behind me.

"And chocolate because it's yummy!"

*o*

Tank tried to shut out the sound of his men's voices as they made their way through the main floor of the security building they'd found at the address Emily had provided him. They'd started pointing out inferior technology and improvements they could make on the systems the moment they entered the lobby. The stream of conversation continued steadily throughout the short tour the man called Kent had given them while they were waiting for Emily to be available for consultation.

As they approached the back wall of what essentially served as the communications room Tank cut his eyes to Bear, noting that his jaw was clenched tightly, matching the tension in his shoulders, and fists. It probably wasn't the best idea to allow the man to accompany them on this mission, given the contempt he already harboured for the original core team. This experience would just cement in his mind that the 'oldies' needed to be disbanded.

Tank shook his head in warning as Bear turned his head slightly in the direction of the men as their comments grew louder. "It's not worth it," he assured him; years of experience had only proved to remind him of this fact. There was no point in telling them to shut up unless it was a life and death situation; they'd just complain louder to spite you.

At that moment, Kent – a rather nervous man, whom jumped at the slightest gesture in his direction – stopped by a door in the back wall, knocking tentatively. Suddenly, a woman in a sleek pencil skirt and blazer, her hair scraped back into a perfect ballet bun was beside Kent as he pressed his ear to the panel. "I'm not in there," she told him crisply, tapping at the PDA in her hand. She looked up to meet the gaze of the towering black man before her and smiled. "You must be Mr. Thumbkin."

The men sniggered behind him at the code name, but a quick glare from Bear shut them up.

"Call me Tank," he offered, extending his hand for her to shake. "You must be Emily."

"I am," she agreed. "Please step inside my office. We have much to discuss."

Silently, the men – including a very hesitant Kent – filed in behind her as she opened the door. Hal immediately sank into one of the two visitors chairs with a relieved sigh, while the rest of the men remained standing. Emily met Kent's skittish gaze and jerked her to indicate the group of standing men. "Chairs," she said and he dashed from the room, leaving behind only a faint whimpering sound in his wake. "Sorry about the lack of seating," she explained. "I wasn't expecting a tribe of men for the meeting."

"Let's cut the chit chat and get down to it," Bear announced.

"Of course," she said. She lifted a thick manila folder from the corner of her desk and held it toward Tank. "This is a complete file of all policies and procedures regarding the Garcia's and their residence, including the reports filed by myself, Kent and our supervisor over the last few days. You'll also find a print out of our general procedures as a reference for how this case differs from the norm."

"Great," Tank said, passing the file to Bobby to hold onto. "We'll be sure to look it over and collaborated it with our own notes. We'll call if we have any questions. For now, though, we'd like to see the children."

"You can't," she said simply, eliciting a small intake of breath from the assembled men. Not a gasp, as such, but an audible breath.

"What do you mean, 'can't'?" Lester asked through gritted teeth. "I thought the whole reason we were called in was because you had orders to hand the kids over to us if a certain amount of time lapsed."

"Which it has," Cal added.

Emily inclined her head as a sign of her agreement. "This is all true, but the fact remains that you can't I can't simply show you to where they are staying at the moment."

"And why is that?" Tank demanded.

"Kent lost them."

Silence fell throughout the room as the men exchanged meaningful glances, each trying to figure out if the woman was being serious. If she _was_ serious it would explain a lot about Kent's twitchiness. On the other hand, they were supposed security experts. How could they have just _lost_ a couple of teenagers. Especially if the teenagers were being housed within their own building.

"What do you mean, lost?" Bear growled.

"I mean, we don't know where they are," she said tersely. "What else would I mean?"

"How?" the men asked as one.

"The girl showed an allergic reaction to something in their quarters, most probably the detergent used to wash the spare clothes made available to them or the soap in the bathroom. Or perhaps a combination of them both. They went to Kent with the matter, who decided the best course of action was to seek medical attention for the girl. While at the hospital emergency room Kent allowed the children out of his sight and they somehow escaped."

"Escaped like they were being held against their will," Hal pointed out. "Did you not consider that they might be suspicious of a group of people keeping them locked away given the sudden absence of their parents?"

"Of course," Emily said. "Unfortunately, we're not equipped, staffing or equipment wise, to babysit abandoned teenagers with dermatological issues."

Bobby spoke up then, consulting his smart phone. "According to Regina's medical files there is no history of any kind of 'dermatological issues'," he announced.

"Dude, did you just air quote?" Lester muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Dude," Hal said, sounding defensive. "I thought you said no one says _dude _anymore."

"They don't," Tank assured him, adding through a clenched jaw, "Especially not in business meetings."

At that moment, the door to the office opened and Kent stumbled in carrying a stack of plastic chairs that he set down with a huff before wiping his brow and straightening with a grimace. The grimace quickly turned to a fully fledged panic attack, however, when he took in the six sets of eyes – supported by large, muscled bodies – staring at him, alight with accusation. "I'm sorry!" he squeaked, bringing his hands up to cover his face. "It was an accident!" And with that he fell to the floor in a dead faint.

Bobby quickly checked him over, proclaiming that he'd be fine before leading his team mates from the room and out of the building. Down in the parking lot, they congregated around the rear of one of their hired SUVs.

"What's the plan now?" Cal asked.

"We check out the house," Lester suggested. "And their places of employment."

"Sequentially or simultaneously?" Hal asked.

Bobby slapped him on the back. "I'm so proud of you," he mentioned. "That word of the day toilet paper is really paying off."

"We'll split up," Tank interrupted impatiently. "Lester, Cal and Bear check out the house. Bobby, Hal and I will visit workplaces. Everyone keep an eye out for the kids."

There was a collective grunt of understanding and they split to their respective vehicles, each aware that their task was suddenly a whole lot more complicated that it had originally seemed.

* * *

_Don't forget to review and let me know what you think._


	13. Chapter 13

_Happy Australia Day Everyone! While my fellow Aussies were out getting drunk and (presumably, given the weather) drenched in honour of our country, I decided to stay indoors and finish the chapter that I started no long after my last post. To compensate for the long wait, I decided to include a little snippet of what Ranger and Steph are up to. Hope you enjoy._

**Chapter 13**

Her back was pressed firmly into the hard surface behind her as she slowly regained consciousness once more. She definitely would not call what she had been doing sleeping. It was more like passing out from emotional exhaustion. For almost two days now she had yo-yo'd between worry for her children, worry for herself and her husband, fear, hope, despair and desperation. No amount of soothing words could calm her racing mind as she imagined millions of scenarios that could be playing out beyond their windowless cell. None of them had happy endings.

"Babe?" Ranger murmured nearby.

She turned her head, still leaning against the wall, to gaze mournfully at her husband; so close and yet so far.

"Tell me Safe and Sound Security followed your instructions to the letter and the kids are safely ensconced within the protective care of Rangeman," she requested for what felt like the billionth time since they'd been captured.

"Of course," he assured her, scooting across the dirty cement floor toward her so that they were as near to each other as their shackles would allow. "Nothing will harm them under Rangeman's watch."

"What if they rebel?" she asked. "You know how stubborn they both can be. What if they resisted being taken by Safe and Sound. Or they refused to go with Rangeman? We never warned them something like this could happen. We didn't give them special instructions in case we went missing. Ric, why didn't we prepare them for this?"

Ranger shook his head slightly, allowing a small sigh to escape his lips for the first time in years. "I allowed myself to feel complacent," he admitted, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes as he rubbed. "I planned on telling them when Lupe reached middle school, but when there wasn't even so much as a sign that they were catching up with us for over ten years I decided there was no point in worrying the kids unnecessarily." He met his wife's eyes, looking for a small token of forgiveness for allowing his guard to fall so far.

"It's not your fault," she said softly. "Feeling safe is a good thing. They're smart kids; they'll do the right thing."

"I trained them to be wary, Babe," he pointed out.

"And they will be, but they'll do the right thing."

*o*

"What do you think Mom and Dad are doing right now?" I asked Steve as he slurped loudly on his milkshake. We'd grabbed the shakes from a nearby McDonalds as we made our escape from the horror that was Hannah's cooking. We couldn't even pick the gummy bears off the top of the concoction, because they were covered in the blended substance. After watching her sip her own portion almost as merrily as she'd created it, we'd made excuses about needing to be somewhere and started walking, but not before she offered her home to us for tonight if we still needed it. Honestly, I'd prefer we didn't go back there, but it was nice to know we had a place to go.

Steve pulled another hash brown from the paper bag he held and handed it to me. "They're probably staring at a completely gross breakfast, not unlike the one we just left behind," he said around a mouthful of fried potato. "Discussing their best option for escape in the hushed tones they usually reserve for discussing punishments before announcing them to us." He paused, swallowing the potato and taking another slurp of his shake before glancing in the window of the store we were passing. "What's the name of Dad's boss again?"

"Uh... It's like, Norman or something ridiculous like that, isn't it?"

"I thought it was Ned," he said, stopping briefly at a street cart covered in dodgy jewellery.

"Steve, why are you stopping?" I asked, glancing up and down the street nervously. Dad's work was still another ten minutes away at the pace we'd been keeping and I wasn't going to feel even remotely safe until we got there. I'd had this niggling thought at the back of my mind ever since we left McDonalds.

"I think we're being watched," Steve murmured, picking up a string of beads and holding them towards me. "What do you think of these for Mom for her birthday?" he asked, his voice louder than it had been before. He was peering in my direction, as if waiting for my opinion or examining the necklace he held, but I could tell he was actually looking over my shoulder in the direction we'd just come from. "The colour is a bit weird though, isn't it?" he added, moving it so that he could cover his eye movement to over the other shoulder.

"They'd clash with her eyes," I agreed, keeping up the pretence while thinking of Mom's brilliant blue eyes and the way they seemed to shine with any emotion she felt. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the family, since we all had brown eyes. I've never noticed Steve or Dad's eyes shining the way Mom's do, so I had to assume mine didn't either. It made me slightly jealous that she had such pretty coloured eyes and I'd been stuck with my father's dull colour, but I knew there was nothing I could do about genetics. I selected a mid blue beaded necklace from the display and held out to the side enabling Steve to check the other side of the street for a potential tail. "This one would enhance the colour of her eyes," I informed him.

Steve nodded and glanced back down to the table, like he was looking for something. After a moment, during which we'd both replaced our props where we'd found them, he selected a blue-tinted crystalline number and held it out approximately where I'd held the previous necklace. "This one sparkles when it catches the light though," he said, sending me a significant glance. "See? Right here." He pointed to a spot on the string of beads and I followed the direction with my eyes across the street to scope out the people there. "It'd go really well with that beret she has," he added.

And that's when I spotted him, a man, in a black beanie across the street at a news stand. It was clear to me that he was only pretending to check out the magazine he held and the niggling feeling I'd had earlier increased to a full blown tingle down my spine.

"We should keep this in mind," I said, still attempting to keep up our cover despite my growing nerves. "I don't have any money at the moment."

The woman manning the stand came over to us at that moment. "Can I help you with something?" she asked with forced politeness, eyeing the necklaces we'd touched as if reassuring herself that we hadn't stuffed them into our jacket pockets to steal off with them. I followed her gaze and grimaced at finger prints we'd clearly left; no wonder her tone terse. I sent her an apologetic look, but all I received in return was a hateful glare.

"No thanks," Steve said, interrupting the woman's intimidation tactics. "We're just getting ideas for a gift for our Mom." He sucked on his milkshake again and handed me the bag that still held one hash brown. Taking a couple of steps away as I pulled out the almost cold food he suddenly turned to face me again as he tossed his empty cup into the nearby trash can. "I'll race you!" he announced before taking off down the street.

I wasn't worried that he'd gotten a head start. He may be athletic, but he was also a bit bulky muscle wise where I was all lithe and slimline. I'd catch up to him in an instant, so I took a moment to suck down the rest of my own milkshake and stuff it and the hash brown and bag into the trash can before racing after him.

*o*

Tank steered the SUV through unfamiliar streets, following the directions of a cool female voice emitting from the navigator system attached to the dashboard. Hal had insisted it would be easier to just follow directions rather than finding a map and working out a route themselves, then having someone manually navigate. The lack of flow caused by the computerised putting together of separate words and phrases did nothing to put Tank's mind at ease, though. Every time the woman's voice abruptly changed pitch, his heart skipped a beat and his grip tightened on the steering wheel.

"What did you say the name of this place was?" he asked Hal as he made yet another turn, seeming to zigzag through the centre of town.

"It's says it's a place called_ Robot Kitchen_," he supplied dutifully, consulting the small screen of his iPhone with squinting eyes.

"I looked it up," Bobby said from the back, where he too had his iPhone out and was scrolling down the screen. "It appears to be an appliance store."

"Store?" Hal asked in confusion. "That can't be right."

"It's what the file says," Bobby said.

"Maybe it's a cover, like how he used to have that empty lot?"

Tank rolled his eyes. "It's probably not a cover," he stated firmly. "Remember, he's been flying under the radar."

"So you're trying to tell me that the boss sells white goods?" Hal questioned, adding thoughtfully, "I could use a new microwave."

"Just keep an eye out for a sign," Tank ordered. "I'm sick of this woman. As soon as we find the exact direction we need to head in I'm shutting her off."

Bobby and Hal quickly averted their gazes out their windows, eyes peeled for a sign containing an image of a mechanical chicken and/or the words _Robot Chicken_ with an arrow. After a few minutes of following the automated instructions Tank was ready to stop and ask for directions. He could swear they were actually going around in circles. He'd just pulled up to a red light when there was a flash of movement in the corner of his eye, drawing his attention.

Hal had whipped out his cell phone once more and was flicking frantically through something on the screen.

"What is it?" Tank asked – demanded, really.

"I think those two kids running up there are Regina and Esteban," he said, slowing his swiping finger as he came to the photos in the electronic file. "In fact, I'm pretty sure."

"Why are they running?" Bobby asked, craning his neck to try to see the kids as they continued to speed away.

"Not important," Tank said. "We need to catch up to them and convince them to come with us."

"You're really going to try to convince them?" Hal asked, fidgeting in his seat as his eyes darted between the red light holding them up and the retreating backs of the two teens they were supposed to be looking after.

"By 'convince them to come with us' he means 'haul their asses into the SUV'," Bobby explained, similarly afflicted with the inability to sit completely still as he had been trained to do his entire life. There was something about being this close to someone he'd thought he'd never see again, even if it was just their children and not them specifically, that made him jittery. "The accelerator, Tank," he prompted. "It's right there. Hit it. We can't let them get away."

Tank took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm and not jump into action as his body – and Bobby – wanted. This was not Trenton, they couldn't simply talk their way out of a ticket because they were seemingly above the law. They had to play it safe. They'd be no use to Stephanie and Ranger if they were locked up in some holding cell for running a red light. "They're on foot," he breathed. "They won't get far."

"You'd never risk waiting if this was a skip," Hal pointed out, just as the lights changed.

Immediately, they were zooming down the street the two teens had just raced down. Obeying traffic laws was one thing, a sudden burst of speed was entirely another, and within moments they were drawing closer to the children. Tank eased back on the accelerator as they passed them, allowing his passengers to get a better look at the pair.

"That's them all right," Bobby confirmed, quickly unlatching his seatbelt and sliding across the bench seat in the back to power the window down and stick his head out.

Hal followed suit, lowering his window and easing his head out to get a better look. "Regina!" he called. "Esteban!"

"What the hell are you doing?!" Tank exclaimed, jerking the car to the side of the road so he didn't run into anyone in his anger.

"Getting their attention," he explained, as if it were the obvious thing to do.

Tank's eyes widened in a death glare as he narrowly stopped himself from throttling his friend. His gaze cut to the pair they'd been pursuing to find that they had paused long enough to glance over their shoulders, turn and run backwards for a few feet, still maintaining momentum. "Idiot," he muttered, seeing the fearful look in the girl's eyes as she said something to her brother and pointed toward them.

*o*

I heard my name yelled out in a deep voice and glanced over my shoulder to see who was calling me. Dad would have hit me upside the head for such a move in one his backyard combat games, but I couldn't help my knee jerk reaction. When I spotted the dark four wheel drive with two heads hanging out the passenger windows pulling to the curb a few car length back I turned so that I could get a better look, but kept moving in direction I'd been heading. Steve, too had glanced over his shoulder, and turned to see what was going on, but when his pace slowed significantly from the action proceeded to face forward once more, keeping pace with me.

My chest swelled when he turned back around, knowing that it was his silent way of saying that he trusted my eyes and that I would tell him anything he needed to know. Of course he would never verbalise this thought, but action do speak louder than words. I watched as the them retracted their heads inside the vehicle, seeming to argue with the driver for a moment.

"What's going on?" Steve asked as the large black man behind the wheel turned to stare at me with fierce eyes.

I gulped, attempting to pick up the pace a little as Steve once again glanced over his shoulder. "Those men in the SUV called out to us and now they're all staring at us as they argue," I informed him, pointing to the navy coloured vehicle in question. A moment later the doors burst open and three large muscled men that looked to be about Dad's age jumped out. "Shit," I exclaimed, as they started in our direction. I took one last – slightly too long – look at their faces, attempting to commit them to memory, before spinning to face forward and kicking up the speed. "Run!" I shouted to Steve.

I was ahead of Steve, naturally faster and with the slight head start. I came to the end of the street and turned in the direction of Dad's work, spotting it two blocks down.

"We can't stop at Dad's work," Steve called to me, sounding slightly puffed. And I knew he was right. While being inside the store would provide a temporary reprieve they'd be waiting for us when we eventually emerged and that would be the end of us. Though we'd (probably) get to see our parents again, it wouldn't do any good, because we'd all be captured with no one on the outside to help us escape. We had to keep going. "We need to split up," Steve called again. "You take the next alley, and circle back the way we came. I'll cross the street and see if I can do the same."

I nodded, not willing to use any more oxygen than I needed to by replying, but then a thought occurred. "Head for the SUV," I called over my shoulder. "They were in a hurry and I don't think they locked it. Maybe they left the keys inside too."

A grunt came from behind and Steve abruptly changed direction, darting out between cars. The sound of Steve's footsteps was replaced by a cacophony of pounding feet, yelled curses and honking horns. I glanced over my shoulder yet again to see the fair skinned man and the smaller of the two black men following Steve while the biggest of the lot continued after me. In that brief second I made the assessment that while he was large, and his pace was relatively swift, there was no way he'd be able to catch up with me if I lead him through an obstacle course.

I kept my speed steady as I approached the alley way Steve had mentioned, giving no indication that I going to turn until I abruptly stepped to the side proceeding to sprint through the narrow opening left between the parked truck and the brick wall, taking a moment to acknowledge that the small space would slow my assailant down, since he'd have to go sideways. As I continued past the dumpster I kept an eye out for anything I could randomly reach out and knock into the path without stopping, providing little speed bumps for the tank of a man.

A pile of milk crates came crashing down behind me as I yanked one away, barely slowing my pace. Turning at the end of the alley to double back behind the buildings I'd passed at the front, I managed to overturn a trash can and took the time to move a couple of discarded shopping carts into the middle of the way. Unfortunately, Mr. Built-Like-A-Brick-Outhouse made short work of my obstacles and was gaining on me. I decided to forgo any further obstacles and just run.

He was close on my tail as turned again to make my way back down an alley and out onto the street once more. I could almost feel the heat radiating from his body. At the end of the alley, though was a gate, taller than the both of us, chained shut and secured with a padlock. This would be the decider of who won the race. I'd either manage to wriggle my way through the gap at the bottom of the gate thereby securing my freedom, or he'd nab me before I made it that far and drag me back to wherever they were holding Mom and Dad.

I was within feet of the dead end and could tell that the man pursuing me saw the gate blocking my escape since he'd dropped off just a little, just like I thought he would. No one wants to run full pelt into a formidable object unless there's a guarantee that you'll go straight through and end up on Platform Nine and Three Quarters. I threw myself at the ground, rolling the last foot and a half before commencing my wriggle through the slightly too small gap. It was tight, but I'd hidden myself in boxes and holes half my size while playing hide and seek with Dad as a kid, so I was confident I could get through.

The man cursed and sped up when he saw what I intended to do.

Finally, I managed to squeeze my head and shoulders and then my hips and buttocks through the space. Just as I pulled my feet out from under the gate, pushing myself into an upright position, there was a pained cry from my pursuer. I spun around to find him bent at the waist, one hand on his knees, the other on his lower back.

A laugh bubbled up from my chest and burst out of my mouth as I resumed my run, shaking my head. "Old people," I chuckled to myself keeping an eye out for the other two men and Steve as I turned again and headed for the abandoned navy blue SUV.

* * *

_Don't forget to review! You know you want to!_


	14. Chapter 14

_Well guys, I'm on flood watch again. Many of you may remember that my house was completely flooded two years ago. Current predictions have the flood peaking about four metres less than back then and should therefore only reach the back fence this time around, but we're moving some stuff from the first floor to the second just in case. We should be fine, so here's a chapter to keep all our minds off it._

**Chapter 14**

I slowed gradually as I rounded the corner and the navy blue SUV came into view. My breath was coming fast and hard, sweat dripping off my brow and I was really wishing I had access to some kind of deodorant, knowing that this kind of activity would leave me with a slightly offensive odour in the best of times. I couldn't let my mind get too occupied with things like bad smells though. I had bigger fish to mentally fry. First and foremost: I now had a dilemma.

I couldn't just wait around by the car in the hope that Steve arrived first, that was laying down on the sidewalk and asking to be dragged away. If enough time passed Mr. Big-Black-And-Hurt-His-Back could recover and make his way back here. At the same time though, I couldn't simply hop up behind the wheel and drive away. For one, I'd already been caught driving without a licence once this week and didn't want to risk it again. And even if I could drive legally, I'd be leaving Steve stranded. Not to mention the fact that I would be committing grand theft auto.

Aware that I was anything but safe, I scanned the people passing by, the cars zooming past on the road, keeping my eyes peeled for Steve, or any one of our stalker/pursuer men. I had to make a decision about the SUV and I'd prefer to make it before there was an immediate threat from, well, anyone who might not have the best of intentions for me. And let's face it, a fifteen year old girl alone on the street? It doesn't matter how she smells, unsavoury characters would have a field day. It didn't even need to be the ones I'd already encountered today. Any number of paedophiles could be watching me at this very moment, making plans to lure me into their white van with candy.

Times like these I really feel the absence of my cell phone. I'm not sure it would do me any good in this situation, but the fact that I didn't have it at all meant that I had no way of contacting Steve if we got more permanently separated. What I wouldn't give to be able to text Steve with my decision for my next action. It would have made everything so much easier.

Scanning the street once more, I wiped the sweat from my brow, and closed the gap between where I stood up against the buildings and the SUV at the curb, confidently reaching for the latch on the back door despite the apprehension forming a solid knot in my stomach. When the door opened without protest a whoosh of breath escaped me and I quickly climbed in the back seat, closing the door behind me. Now that I was inside the car I had another decision to make: where to wait.

Something told me that just sitting in one of the seats was a stupid idea. There was hiding in plain sight and there was a sitting duck, and I was pretty sure my current position was leaning more toward ducky territory. Realising my time was probably limited I quickly climbed over the back seat into trunk area. I found myself surrounded by three military issue duffle bags, making me assume that whoever was after us today was not based locally and either had not yet checked into a motel or hotel or were not planning on sticking around long enough to do so. I wasn't sparing too much thought for that at the moment though, just thankful for the added cover as I arranged the bags around me, settling in to peer out the window and keep watch.

I didn't have to wait long before someone came back around the corner. Unfortunately, though, it wasn't Steve. Heading swiftly toward the car I was currently hiding in was the fair skinned man in black. He was limping slightly, and looked thoroughly out of breath, but otherwise, still large and dangerous with a loaded gun belt and shiny combat boots. I ducked down into my duffle bag nest and prayed to the God I had a tenuous relationship with that he wouldn't come and look in the trunk.

A moment later a door at the front of the vehicle opened and closed, followed by the turning over of the engine. Just great. Pretty sure if Dad could see me now I'd be getting a lecture about appropriate covers and hiding places. This was probably one of the stupidest ideas I'd had since Mom and Dad disappeared. The car was only moving for a short time before it pulled to the side of the road once more, idling as doors opened and closed and snippets of conversations drifted to my ears. I heard Steve's agitated voice a moment before the back door was reefed open and he was pushed inside.

"Child protective services knows we're missing," he was saying forcefully. "They'll be looking for me."

"Relax, Esteban," one of the men said. "I already told you, we're on your side."

More doors and clicking sounds reached my ears as Steve spoke again. "And I already told you, my name's not Esteban. You've got the wrong guy."

The car started moving again and I gripped a conveniently located bar to keep from rolling around.

"Your parents are Michelle Irene and Carlos Ricardo Garcia?" the same man asked. "Your sister is Regina Guadalupe Garcia?"

"What do you want from us?" Steve demanded. There was a clicking sound followed by some thuds and Steve practically yelled, "Let me out of here! Unlock this door!"

"Esteban, please-," the other guy started, but Steve cut him off, anger clear in his voice.

"That's not my name!"

Irrationally that Ting Tings song ran through my head and I had to clamp my lips closed to keep from singing out.

"Stephen. Carlos. Garcia," Steve bit out. "Steeee-veeeeennnnnnnn. Not Esteban. God, that sounds so soap opera pool boy."

*o*

Bobby mentally slapped his forehead, steering the car through the light post-church traffic keeping an eye on the footpaths for any sign of Tank or Regina. How could they have been so stupid. They'd been so excited about discovering Esteban still lived that they'd neglected to remind themselves that they'd had to change his name to slip under the radar. Carlos Esteban Manoso, the bright little RangeBaby they'd all claimed as their own seventeen years ago was now a stubborn eighteen year old apparently hell bent on ditching his Uncle rescuers who couldn't seem to get his current name right. Thank God the SUV came equipped with a child lock feature.

"Right," Hal said from the back seat. "Stephen. If you could calm down a moment, we'll explain why we're here."

Bobby nodded his head, absently acknowledging the need to keep the teen calm so that we could get him to cooperate in helping to find his sister and then figuring out the situation with his parents. It was important to keep the kids safe and within their watch so that they could work more easily at trying to locate Steph and Ranger.

"We're from a company called Rangeman," Hal explained patiently, when Stephen lapsed into a stony silence. "Based in Trenton. We specialise in security and skip tracing."

"Skip tracing?" Stephen asked, curiosity piqued by the obviously unusual term.

"We'll explain about that later," Bobby put in from up front, spotting Tank on the sidewalk across the street and pulling to the curb. "It's not important right now."

"True," Hal agreed, nodding. "So anyway, your father used to head up the company."

Bobby hopped out of the car and waved his arms to get Tank's attention and the larger man began hobbling across the street, slightly bent and holding his back. It would have been comical in the old days when they were practically invincible, but these days Bobby was all too aware of the problems a life time of getting banged up had plagued on his friends and colleagues. While Tank was just as fit as he'd always been he occasionally suffered from back problems so painful they could be utterly debilitating. Clearly he had once again thrown his back out.

"What happened, man?" Bobby asked as he drew near

"She got away," Tank grumbled, cringing as he pulled open the passenger side door and began slowly climbing in.

Bobby shook his head, returning to his own door. "I can see that," he noted. "Are you alright?"

Tank shot him a glare as he finally settled into the seat and attempted to bring the seatbelt down across his chest, hissing as it clearly aggravated his injury. "I've been better." He flicked his eyes to the back seat where Hal and Steve sat silently, staring back at him. "Good, you got Esteban."

"Stephen," Hal quickly corrected with a quick glance to the teen at his side. "We were just about to explain the situation to him."

"We'll do that at the motel," Tank instructed.

Bobby nodded his understanding and started the car once more, pulling out into traffic. "Where are we booked?" he asked.

"Nowhere at the moment," he admitted.

This mission could have been organised much better, Bobby silently admitted, but given the urgency of the situation they'd all made oversights. Like Hal calling out to the kids when he spotted them, alerting them to their presence and freaking them out. It was a stupid move. The kids would already have been on edge what with their parents missing and the escape from the other security company. Now they'd separated the siblings unintentionally and would likely have to explain the situation twice. Given recent lapses in appropriate communication methods among the men, that wasn't the best idea.

"You know anywhere nearby?" Bobby asked, pushing his thoughts aside to focus on the current problem.

"Hal, check on your phone," Tank instructed.

While Hal proceeded to swipe at his phone, swearing occasionally as he inevitably hit wrong buttons and lost data unintentionally, Stephen decided to speak up, proving that he possessed the stubborn confidence of both his parents.

"So you're in charge here?" he asked Tank.

Tank grunted as the car hit a bump in the road, but managed to reply with a terse, "Yes."

"This guy claims you all know my parents."

"We do," Bobby confirmed, deciding he was going to need to drive around the area a bit to see if they could spot Regina while Hal found a motel. "Tank and I actually served in the Army Rangers with him," he explained.

A beat or two of silence passed while a few more mumbled curses came from Hal's corner of the car. "Pretty sure Dad wasn't in the army," Stephen finally spoke, and Bobby was relieved to hear that a lot of the anger had drained from his tone. A heavy load of suspicion was still layering his words, though.

"We'll explain later," Tank groaned as Bobby was forced to break suddenly. "It's too complicated for right now."

"I think I found one!" Hal announced, holding his phone closer to his face to read. "I can't see a number though... wait... I think... no, that's fax... wait a second... Yep! There is it." There was a pause during which Bobby assumed Hal was tapping the number into the phone to call. "Oh hey," he added. "It says I can book online."

Bobby rolled his eyes. "Just call them.

"No, no," Hal said. "I got this." Another pause before he started reading. "Check. In. Date... Dude, what's today's date?"

"This is going to take forever," Tank said. "And Regina is probably long gone by now. Just head for the house, we'll check in with the others and try to come up with a pla-argh!" His words were cut off by the pained cry as Hal's arm suddenly thrust through the space between the front seats, holding in his iPhone in Tank's face while gripping the back of the seat with his other hand to keep the position. The jerking action must have jarred Tank's back. "Death," he seethed into Hal's ear.

"What room formation do we want?" Hal asked, oblivious to the pain he was inflicting on his superior. A moment past and Hal abruptly sat back. "Shit," he uttered. "What did I do? I lost the screen."

"Are you _sure_ you're security specialists?" Stephen asked, laughter in his voice. "Seems to me you should be more tech savvy. And maybe more in shape."

* * *

_Review, guys. You know you want to. I'll be waiting for you._


	15. Chapter 15

_*Massive grin* I'm so excited about this chapter :D So excited that I don't want to keep you from reading it a moment longer!_

**Chapter 15**

After only two minutes of suffering through this Hal guy's struggles with modern technology versus his massive, old man fingers, I relented and decided to put him out of his misery. There's only so much a guy can stand and watching this behemoth of a man fumbling with the latest version of the iPhone, practically man handling it, was my limit.

Silently, I held out my hand for the device, earning myself a suspicious glance. I rolled my eyes at his distrust. "If I wanted to contact someone to come rescue me I'd have done so already," I informed him, jerking my own phone from my pocket to show him. "You're obviously inept in this area, so I'm willing to put our differences and my suspicions aside and help you."

He glared at me for a long moment until the massive bearded black man in the passenger seat snapped, "Give him the phone, Hal." My guess was, in his obviously injured state – go Lupe! – his patience for the man had officially petered out and he was willing to do anything to put an end to the constant questions and swearing and jerking of his chair.

Hal still looked torn though, clearly not liking that I'd called him inept, his face hardening with determination as he continued to flick his finger across the screen.

"I swear by all that is Holy, Hal," Mr. Bad Back gritted out. "If you don't hand that phone over to the boy this instant I'll slam you to the mats at the earliest opportunity. And I won't be mindful of your bad knee."

The next thing I knew, the phone was thrust into my hand and I could tell that the man in the passenger seat was definitely the authority figure in the car. I'm surprised Hal didn't wet his pants at the threat he'd just received. I imagined my coach making a similar threat at football practice and watching my fellow rough and tumble team mates cowering in fear. The fact that this man with all his comparable size maintained bladder control spoke volumes of the kind of history these men had. Either Mr. Bearded Authority was handing out empty threats, or Hal had been offered this solution enough times in the past that he'd built up a layer of steel to keep his urine safely in check.

Given his hasty compliance, I was inclined to go with the latter option.

While the car continued to travel through the streets back toward home, prompted by the cool female voice of the GPS, leading them on what I was pretty sure was the longest possible route, I turned my attention to the phone and the website displayed on the screen. I knew the motel he'd selected, it was right near the motorway and known for being outrageously expensive, but I wasn't about to inform them of this. More money out of their pockets meant more pleasure for me. In fact...

"How many adults?" I questioned as I selected a date that was definitely not today.

"Six," Hal informed quickly. "Wait, how old are you?"

"Not yet a legal adult," I replied, deliberately not giving them a specific number. "So, six adults," I confirmed, inwardly acknowledging that this was the perfect way to gain some important information. For example, I now knew that these men were only half of what I was up against. "Sorry, maximum number is four. You'll have to make multiple bookings. Do you want to proceed?"

"I guess we'll have to," Hal agreed, looking nervously to the front of the vehicle, but when neither of the men objected he seemed to relax a little. "Go four and two."

I entered four adults into the box provided on the form and hit next. When the page reloaded I read out the list of available rooms and  
sleeping formations, waited for their reply and then chose the most expensive anyway. Once I'd confirmed the length of their stay, I proceeded to the payment page and announced that it was payment time. Beardy in the passenger seat grunted as he shifted and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket, and handed me a black AmEx card. I was impressed, both at the obvious show of trust and the exuberant card.

I examined the name on the card carefully, trying to figure out if it did in fact belong to the massive man who'd handed it to me. After a few moments, I realised that my lack of activity had drawn Hal's attention, so I began filling in the guest details as much as possible with the information I'd just received.

"So, Pierre," I said casually, testing the waters. Interestingly, both the other men cringed at the sound of the name on my lips. Pierre, on the other hand was staring straight ahead and I'm pretty sure his jaw was clenched as were his fists where he gripped both the seatbelt over his chest and the sissy bar over the window. "What was that?" I asked, too curious to not bring up their reactions. "Was I not supposed to notice the fake name on the card?"

"Oh, it's real," the driver assured me, glancing apprehensively to his passenger.

"Then what's the problem?" I asked.

"Noooooooobody uses Tank's real name," Hal said quietly, emphasising the word 'nobody' by drawing it out. "Ever."

"Unless you want an ass whooping," the driver added.

"Right," I commented, barely restraining yet another eye roll. "'Cos he's sooooo in the right shape to do such a thing at the moment. Besides, I'm a kid. Is Pierre really going to beat up a kid?" I watched the man carefully, finding great amusement in the slow, deep breathing he appeared to be doing, probably reminding himself that any ass whooping he dished out at the moment would likely cause him more pain than it was worth.

"Ordinarily, I'd be inclined to say yes," the driver explained. "He doesn't tend to take age into consideration when people use his real name. However, given who you are, I think you may have earned a reprieve. For now. I'd stop using it though, just to be on the safe side."

"My parents taught me that a healthy amount of curiosity can serve me well," I said, scrolling down on the phone to fill in the credit card details as I spoke. "And right now, I'm curious as to how far I can push the invalid before he snaps and hurts himself anew."

"Boy, your parents are the only reason I haven't already snapped," Pierre snarled. "I suggest you back off now or you'll find yourself a lovely shade of purple and green heritage be damned."

The rest of the drive back home passed in relative quiet, not because I was afraid of the big lug, but because I was trying to work out his statement while also memorising his credit card details for future reference. Once I'd finished booking the motel rooms – all eight of them – I handed back the phone and credit card, informing him that an email confirmation should arrive within the hour. By this time we had turned into my street and I was gearing up for the perfect moment to escape them. Once they opened my door there was a small window of opportunity during which I would run as fast as I could. I had the advantage here of knowing my neighbourhood and all its short cuts off by heart and was confident I could reach my friend Bug's place three streets over before they managed to catch up.

The SUV pulled to the curb at the front of the house, and the driver immediately hopped out. While Pierre gingerly eased himself to the ground the driver moved to my door, to open it. I didn't even pause to get my bearings, the moment my feet hit the ground I was running down the road at full pelt. I'd barely made it past the neighbour's driveway when I was tackled from behind. I felt myself propelled forward and was anticipating a gravel-meet-face type incident when I was suddenly confronted with a perfect view of the sky as my back made contact with something hard that I suspected, given the loud _oof_ it emitted when I landed, was not the road. I tried rolling off whoever it was, but his arms tightened around my middle. I was trapped.

Loud, gruff voices – more than the three I'd shared car space with – reached my ears and the next thing I knew I was hefted over a shoulder and carried into the kitchen where I was plonked on a chair and held down by one man while another fastened bungy cables to the slats at the back and proceeded to wrap them around my torso, under the chair and through my legs to ensure I stayed seated.

On my side, my ass.

"Is this really necessary?" I asked the two new men I was faced with as the others filed into the room that at one time had been the evening hub of activity. I'd spent millions of hours in this room over the years, doing homework, preparing or helping to prepare meals, eating said meals, receiving lectures and punishments and now it was invaded by a bunch of identically dressed supposed security specialists from Trenton, New Jersey. Oh how times change.

"You still wanna run away?" the blonde who'd held me down asked, stepping back to lean against the counter.

"Well, considering the fact that you've now kidnapped me, forced me down, and tied me up, yeah. Pretty sure running is an appropriate reaction right now."

The man looked to Hal, Pierre and the driver with an almost incredulous expression. "Didn't you explain who we are?" he asked.

Before any of them could reply, I inserted myself into the conversation, disliking being talked about as if I wasn't there. "Not really," I told Blondie. "They started to, but then Hal started mucking around with his phone and I had to save him from scary world of the internet. Plus, Pierre is cranky 'cause he hurt his back chasing after my sister." I couldn't hold back my chuckles as the assembled men cringed in unison, just like Bobby and Hal had in the car. "Man, I don't think that reaction is _ever_ going to get old."

"Why hasn't Tank beheaded him yet?" someone asked from my right, drawing my attention to the new voice. I turned my head to get a bead on him and discovered another large man, but this one stood out against the rest quite obviously, given the flaming skull tattooed to his forehead and the slight middle aged pooch to his belly. He must have had a numb skull to think that was an attractive option. Can't imagine any of the girls I know falling for him.

Hal sidled a little closer to Numb Skull and whispered, "He's restraining himself because he's injured and also doesn't want to invoke the wrath of Steph and Ranger when we eventually find them."

"Who are Steph and Ranger?" I asked curiously, looking around at the kitchen. The question was immediately forgotten when I took in the state of the cupboards, over the stove area. Every single door was open and the once immaculately stacked dishes and food items were upturned and strewn across the bench. We'd be in a world of trouble if Dad ever caught sight of it like this. "What the hell did you do to my kitchen?!"

"We didn't do anything to it. It was like this when we got here," the final member of the band informed me on a growl. This one was just as large as the rest, and clearly hardened, but I noted that he was considerably younger than his companions. At least twenty years younger.

As if my mouth had a mind of its own I found myself singing. "One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong. Can you tell me which is not like the others by the time I finish my s-."

"Shut the hell up," he snapped, irritation written clearly on his face, forming a very grizzly expression. I'd call him Bear, I decided. "We need you to let us know of anything that is kept in the house that might be of value so we can check if anything's missing."

"Sure," I agreed easily, which immediately grabbed the attention of all six men. Clearly they hadn't been expecting me to be cooperative. Little did they know that I wouldn't be as helpful as they were hoping. Oh sure, I'd get them to check for the things I knew Dad would check for, but beyond that, I was ready to see how far I could push these men. It's like Mom said, when in doubt, wreak havoc and create diversions. I noted the suspicious expressions on Bear and Pierre – hehe, that rhymes – and added, for their benefit. "Hey, this is my house, I wanna make sure nothing's stolen."

They gave me a _get on with it_ gesture and I put on my worst French accent; a more subtle jab at the man who's name apparently must not be uttered. "Zere is a leather bound zhournal in zee bottom left 'and drawer of my father's desk," I began, unable to keep the grin off my face.

Blondie leaned down so that his face was mere inches from mine. "Dude, you're skating on thin ice," he informed me. "Any more cracks you're gonna end up with duct tape over your mouth."

"But zen you will nezer know what is meesing," I pointed out in the same terrible accent. I'd have kept it up, but Bear took one step forward and gave the back of my head a knock. "Ah, the bear has claws," I commented.

"Give us a list of items of value andthen I will personally duct tape you mouth so much you'll have a bald patch at the back of your head when we finally remove it. Understand?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Weren't you supposed to make that an ultimatum?" I question. "Telling me that I'm gonna be duct taped to within an inch of my life isn't likely to persuade me to speak."

"We have a job to do here, kid," Pierre informed me tersely. "That job is to keep you safe and to locate your parents. In order to do that, we need to know if anything has been taken from the house. If something is missing it could be a clue as to who has your parents."

I rolled my eyes. "Fine," I sighed. "But if he duct tapes me you'll be sorry." And with that, I took a breath and returned to my list. "The household accounts book and birth certificates et cetera are kept in a safe in Dad's office. Don't ask me where the safe is, I just know it's in there somewhere. Mom's jewellery box is usually on the dresser in their room covered in a bunch of perfume bottles. The box is pretty full and most of it looks real." So far that was true. There really was a black leather bound journal in the bottom drawer of Dad's desk, I really didn't know where the safe was located in Dad's office and Mom's jewellery really did look real.

The men nodded for me to keep going.

"Is that the kind of thing you're after?" I asked, trying to make it seem like I really was being helpful, despite what I planned to list next.

"What about a family photo album?" Driver asked. "Do you know where that's kept?"

"Mom has a little one in her bedside drawer," I admitted. "But the family portrait above the fireplace is probably more valuable."

"Anything else?" Blondie prompted.

"The spare keys in the hub in the hallway? The hot tub? Mom's favourite wind chimes?" Bear let out a low growl and began undoing the bungy cables that had so recently been used to secure me to the chair. Here's hoping he doesn't actually have access to duct tape. I continued despite the waves of anger radiating off the man. "What about the boiling pot? My Pokemon card collection?"

The bungies fell away and Bear reefed me to my feet, beginning to drag me from the room. "Don't forget to check for Reggie's pillow!" I called over his shoulder to the others. "It's insanely expensive!"

* * *

**_You know what I'm going to ask you to do now. Reeeeeeeeviiiieeeewwwww! Pretty Please?_**


	16. Chapter 16

_I forgot to mention, in all my excitement last chapter, that my house was nowhere near flooded, the river having peaked at least a metre below predicted. So anyway, all's well and here's the next chapter.._

**Chapter 16**

The moment the voices died down and I was certain the men, along with my brother, were all inside the house, I slipped from the trunk of the car and scurried for the nearby fence line. The small bushes there weren't an ideal cover, but it was enough to get me from the sidewalk to the backyard where I would have my choice of well tested hiding places while I came up with a plan.

I crouched with my back against the wall of the house in what I knew for a fact was a small blind spot. Standing here I couldn't be seen from any of the windows no matter what angle you were looking from unless you took off the screens and stuck your head out, nor was the spot reached by the camera mounted in the eaves over the back door. Mom and Dad were aware of the security black hole, so it would never have worked if I was hiding from them, but whoever was currently inside the house would have no clue of its existence. It was just safe enough for me to pause in as I contemplated the more long term hiding options available to me.

The obvious choice for anyone other than myself or Steve would have been to climb up into the tree house, but there were problems associated with hiding within structures – anyone who's got even an inkling of common sense would check any buildings or structures large enough to contain a human being – as well as dangers with hiding in trees – there was very little cover, if someone came up the tree you were cornered, you could fall out of the tree if you lost your balance even momentarily.

Needless to say the tree house was ruled out immediately. As was hiding inside the garden shed, not that there was enough room in there to fit a person anyway, what with all the tools and equipment and other random stuff stored there. There was a small ditch under a bush that I'd utilised when I was younger, but chances were I would not longer fit as completely as I had seven years ago. That left the space _behind_ the shed. The space was small enough that not many people would suspect a human being was hiding back there, but large enough that I could fit without too much discomfort. Plus there was a bush right at the back corner of the structure, allowing me to spy around the edge with a little cover, and if I felt so inclined I could lever myself up between the shed wall and be back fence to peer over the top of the roof.

With my target sighted, I now needed to make it across the yard without being noticed. Probably, I could have just run across the open area and ducked behind the shed, but my instincts were telling me to be more cautious. My brother had already been captured, I didn't want to deliver myself to the bad guys on a silver platter.

So I made my way back over to the fence line and resumed my army crawl under the inadequate cover the bushes provided, constantly checking the back of the house for signs of movement as I began to formulate my plan.

The first thought that came to mind was to get help. My options were limited, but I had to fully explore them if only for peace of mind that I was ha d considered all possibilities.

There was the police, but what were the chances they would believe the story of a fifteen year old girl who'd recently been 'abandoned' by her parents and then escaped the custody of the one organisation that was probably most likely to help her? I pushed that option to the bottom of the pile as a last resort, because I'd at least need access to a phone for it to work and there was the possibility that they would view it as a crank call or that it would of little importance to them so they'd take forever to send a patrol out.

Steve's friend Bug lived just a few streets away and I knew for a fact that he was forced to endure family time every Sunday afternoon after mandatory morning church. I could explain the situation to him and – and what? All Steve's friends blatantly despised me, and Bug was no exception. He probably wouldn't listen to me to begin with, let alone believe me. And even if he did, he'd have to somehow wriggle his way out of his obligations. I just didn't see it happening.

I could always enlist that Hannah woman's help. But the faults with that plan were practically in the millions. First there was the issue of getting there. I'd have to walk. Or hitchhike. Or steal a car. Or borrow Mom's car which was still parked in the driveway, since Dad had dropped her – or had been intending on dropping her – at work on Friday (_God, had only been two days since they went missing?)_ and I wasn't sure I fully remember the brief hotwiring lesson Dad had given Steve and I last year. For a start, half of those means of travel were illegal.

Then there was the problem of leaving Steve. If I left for any amount of time, the men could move him while I was gone and then I'd be completely at a loss as to what to do.

So that left option D: infiltrate my own house and rescue Steve all on my lonesome in a high stakes version of one of Dad's games. Steve was right. A lot of the games Dad forced us to play seemed to be preparations for some kind of urban warfare. We knew how to shoot a gun – not that we had access to anything but NERF fire arms. He'd cultivated our skills of deduction with weekly crime show views and a modified version of the board game Cluedo. We were learning martial arts. And then there were all the survival and war based games. It's a wonder Steve and I didn't have more violent tendencies.

I sighed aloud as I let my head drop back to rest against the fence, realising that for the first time I would have to plan and carry out a solo 'mission'. I had no back up. I had no pack of supplies. All I had was my knowledge of the house layout, its best points of stealth entry and a life time of advice from my father.

Oh. And time. I had plenty of planning time. By my guess it was late morning by the time I came to the conclusion that I would need to rescue Steve myself, and I was definitely not going to pull that kind of stunt in broad daylight. That meant waiting till dark.

*o*

I could count on one hand the amount of times I'd successfully snuck into the house undetected. It was like Dad's brain was hotwired to the security system and the moment I so much as touched the outside of the house he was three feet away with a flashlight telling me I had to do better than that if I wanted to survive. So it was safe to say that the experience of climbing up the trellis on the side of the house that would allow me to haul myself up onto the roof, hope to God that the work Dad had done replacing the broken tiles in recent months would ensure that none slide out from under me crashing to the ground and alerting the men still inside the house to my presence, use the screwdriver I'd found in the garden shed to gently remove the attic window and climb inside.

Of course, this plan hung precariously on the assumption that the men hadn't managed to force Steve into arming the alarm.

As I slowly eased the half window I'd just taken off its hinges through the frame I listened closely for the tell tale high pitched beeping that would normally sound from both the wall mounted panel in the front hall and a small device Dad kept in his office. The slightest peep and I'd be off the roof and out of the yard faster than you could say cat on a hot tin roof.

Silence apart from the feint sound of male voices that I was pretty sure drifted up from the ground floor. I slid inside and tip toed to the retractable ladder where I laid flat on my stomach and pressed my ear against the thin barrier between myself and the floor below to ensure the men weren't coming closer. Convinced that they were in either the kitchen or dining room on the first floor, I swung the ladder down making short work of the descent and re-closing the hatch, thankful for the fact that our particular model of attic ladder did not have a ball on the end of a string that would swing around after being returned to its original position, giving away my presence in the house.

I was making my way toward the bedrooms to check if Steve had been stashed within any of them as quickly as I could while still maintaining a silent status the men's voices became louder, alerting me to the fact that they were on the move. It sounded like they were heading for the door. Perhaps leaving? I could only hope.

"Great," one booming voice rose above the rest, catching my attention. "I'm gonna go stake my claim on the spare bed. Hopefully stretching out will pull my spine back in line." The comment was followed by light hearted teasing and the sound of boots on the stairs.

A few choice words that Mom would have chastised my ass off for flitted through my head and I hastened to the nearest door, slipping inside and leaning against the other side of the door, my eyes clamped shut and I sent up a rare prayer that whoever it was – the Pierre guy? – didn't check the other rooms before heading to bed.

Only when I'd heard his boots clomp past and the click of the door at the end of the hall closing did I let out the breath I'd been holding in, in a slow steady stream.

"Reggie, what the hell are you doing here?"

My eyes snapped open at the sound of my brother's reprimand and I was confronted with the sight of Steve standing on the rim of the bathtub as he leaned his arms on the shower curtain rod.

"What am I doing here?" I whispered harshly. "What are _you_ doing in here?"

"Well, considering I was the one to be captured, I would say my reason for being here are pretty obvious," he replied just as quietly, giving me a pointed look. Clearly I was now expected to explain my presence, but the fact was, I curious about his position.

"Did I interrupt some chin ups or something?" I asked. "What's with the hang?"

With a roll of his eyes, Steve adjusted his hold on the bar and stepped down off the tub, lowering one arm, naturally drawing my attention to the other. I travelled my gaze up past his slightly bent elbow to where he still gripped the shower rod. And the extra bit of metal connecting it to his wrist.

He'd been cuffed to the shower curtain rod. What was I supposed to think about that?

* * *

_Hands up if you think the fact that I remind you to review every chapter is annoying and I should stop._


	17. Chapter 17

_Howdy y'all! I am feeling insanely perky right now, and it maaaaaaay be the fact that it is almost bed time. Anyway. New chapter! WOOO! I'll let you read now :D_

**Chapter 17**

It took no time at all for me to pick the lock on the cuff and free my older brother, who was apparently unaware of my extensive stash of bobby pins in the top left drawer of the bathroom vanity that was easily within reach if he slid his cuff along the curtain rod. Once he was down, we listened carefully at the door to ensure the coast was clear before making our way into the hall. I hit the button on the wall to release the attic stairs, thankful for the silent mechanisms, and we quickly climbed up into the storage space.

As Steve returned the hatch to its usual position and followed me across the space to the window I'd dismantled earlier, I couldn't help but acknowledge that this rescue was turning out to be way easier than any "training exercise" game Dad had put us through. Either these men weren't very good at this kind of thing, or years of practice had finally paid off.

I was feeling almost giddy with my impending success as I swung myself down onto the trellis, a feeling that was soon squashed as a flashlight shone up at me from the ground. Steve, in the middle of swinging himself over, groaned as the light hit him straight in the eyes.

Scrambling back onto the roof next to Steve, I stared down at the man, shielding my eyes against the harsh glare from his torch.

"Come down and we can talk about this," he said, his voice carrying easily up to us, though he couldn't have been speaking in more than a whisper.

"Bear," Steve sighed, scooting a little further back so that his face was no longer illuminated. He'd filled me in on all the men he'd been exposed to while I'd been working on his cuff, so I knew Bear was the one who'd locked Steve up. I also knew that he appeared to be the youngest, the most competent, and the one with the shortest temper. Then there was the knowledge that every single one of them carried at least two guns and a blade of some sort. We'd have to tread carefully if we wanted to get out of this alive.

"What do you want with us" I called down, suddenly unable to control my mouth. I know I should have kept it shut and simply climbed down, but the stress of the last three days had gotten to me. I just wanted to curl up on the couch between my mom and dad on the couch and watch crime shows, blissfully unaware that at any moment a similar situation could crash land in my life and disrupt the perfect flow of events. "What did you do to our parents?"

"Rege," Steve warned, looping his strong fingers around my wrist.

"We haven't done anything to your parents," Bear informed me. "We're trying to locate them, the same as you are. Now come down here so we can discuss this civilly."

"Why should we trust you?" I blurted, tears stinging behind my eyes, threatening to burst forth at any moment.

Bear said nothing for a long time, and I wondered if he'd heard me. I was, after all, speaking in a whisper to avoid drawing the attention of the entire street. Just as I was contemplating repeating my question, though, he spoke.

"You're right," he said in the measured tone. "You have no reason to trust me or any of my co-workers. However, if you would come inside and allow me to explain the situation from my viewpoint, I feel we can come to an understanding."

I glanced toward Steve, trying to work out his thoughts on the matter, but it was too dark for me to make out his expression. Extracting my wrist from his grasp, I laid a hand on his forearm, murmuring his name in an even quieter voice that I'd been using to communicate with Bear.

"No more hand cuffs?" Steve called down to the man.

"If you promise not to run away, I promise I won't cuff you or your sister," he stated, catching me off guard. He didn't strike me as the promising type.

"Pinkie swear?" I prompted.

He paused a moment, and I thought he may have let out a small chuckle before answering. "To my knowledge, you would first need to come down off the roof if we were to pinkie swear," he pointed out.

"We'll meet you in the kitchen," Steve informed him, already making his way back up the roof to the attic window.

"Have your pinkie ready," I added, following him a moment later.

*o*

Bear was seated at the kitchen table when we made it down the stairs. In front of him were two thick manila folders, his wallet, Dad's laptop, two side arms, a switch blade, a mug of brown, milky liquid, and my phone.

"Would you like a hot chocolate?" he asked as we entered, as if we were guests in _his_ home, lifting his own mug in demonstration.

"I'll get it," Steve assured him, moving to the kitchen counter were he pulled out both our mugs.

We all had special mugs that we used. Mom's was red, blue and yellow and illustrated to look like it was wearing a Wonder Woman costume. Dad's was simple, black with the yellow oval Batman logo. Steve's was shaped like Iron Man's head.

And mine?

Well, at the time we were picking them out, I insisted that I wanted _The Incredibles, _since I was seven and they were my ideal superheroes. But Steve was adamant that I couldn't get the Incredibles because they weren't actually a comic. Being that I was still young, I _neeeeeeeeded _to have a female character on my mug. Which, of course, left me with limited choices. Wonder Woman – the most well known – was taken. Batgirl seemed like a cop out, since Dad already had Batman. And I didn't really know any others. So I got Rogue, from X-Men. I picked her because in the original comics she had unruly hair. Also, her name used a lot of the same letters as mine. That's a big thing when you're seven. Friendships have been formed on less.

Now that I'm older, I'd love to get a new one. One that suits my personality a little better. Like Wolverine. See what I did there? Little Lupe? Little Wolf? Wolverine? Yeah, I know, I'm a genius. In saying that, though, I wouldn't mind a S.H.I.E.L.D mug. And I know I caught Steve checking out a "Stark Expo" mug a few months back. Maybe it's time for an upgrade.

As I settled into my usual chair, directly across from where Bear sat, I was watched Steve's actions out of the corner of my eye. He filled the mugs with water from the tap, rather than the still hot water from the kettle, sliding them into the microwave to be nuked. While they were heating he pulled out the milk and hot chocolate mix, smelling and tasting both carefully, just the way Dad had showed us to make sure it hadn't been drugged.

"I haven't contaminated anything," Bear drawled, leaning back in his – well, technically, it's Steve's – chair.

"Better safe than sorry," Steve retorted as he finished making our hot chocolates and brought them over to the table.

As soon as we were both sat, Bear pushed my phone across the table toward me. "I believe this is yours."

I took the phone in my hand and stared at it. I knew it was mine, it had my bright green case on it, and the little scratch marks from where it has been dropped and scraped along surfaces were all in the right place. When I pressed the button to turn the screen on, the picture of me with Mom and Dad on the Ferris wheel last year appeared, accompanied by a notification that my battery was low, which wasn't all that surprising. In fact, I was more surprised that it was still alive. I suppose not being used for twenty four hours prolonged the battery life some.

Steve and Bear sat silently while I check all my contacts and photos to ensure they were all still there. When I finally looked up from the screen still clutched between my hands, Bear started talking.

"My colleagues and I are based in Trenton, New Jersey," he began, sliding Dad's laptop across the table toward us. "We work for a company called Rangeman, providing high end security as well as bail bond enforcement."

Neither Steve nor I said anything. We had no way of verifying the information, we'd never been to New Jersey, never heard of the company before today.

Bear gestured to the laptop positioned in front of Steve. "Feel free to do a Google search. You'll find my information is correct."

I exchanged a dubious glance with my brother before turning our gaze to the computer and, as one, we let out a short laugh. He may have thought he was providing us with a means of substantiation, but the reality was the only way we'd be able to use the laptop he'd presented us with was if Dad was there to type in his passwords.

That's right. Passwords. Plural.

Not only was there a password to access the desktop initially, but I was pretty sure he had absolutely everything password protected. I'd watched him working for about five minutes and in that time he'd typed in about seven different passwords. _Different_. No two passwords were the same.

"We can't use that," Steve explained once we'd calmed down and noticed the blank stare Bear was giving us. "Dad's got tighter security on his laptop than the whole of the secret service, FBI and CSI combined."

"I could go get mine," I suggested. I'd be lying if I said a small part of my brain wasn't thinking of how I could turn this into an escape. "It should still be in my room."

"Your room is next to the spare room," Bear stated, like that was an explanation as to why I should or should not go get my laptop.

I gave him one of my patented deadpan looks. "And?"

"And Tank is sleeping in the spare room. I don't want to wake him."

"Concerned for Pierre's beauty rest?" Steve teased, grinning.

"More like I don't want to wake the sleeping lion and have him interrupt the progress we've made by taking over and doing things his way, which I think we all agree did not work."

My brows furrowed at his words. "We've made progress?" I asked, uncertain.

"Of course," he replied politely, making me wonder if Steve had been a little premature in assigning him the name Bear. "We're sitting here listening to each other and no one is cuffed. Isn't that progress?"

He had a point, I guess.

"There is a red laptop on a side table in the living room," Bear continued. "Would that suffice?"

The red laptop was Mom's, we knew. It was in the living room because she preferred the comfort of the sofa as opposed to Dad's 'ass-cramp' chair. While she still had a password for access – at Dad's insistence – her's was much simpler. Had I not already known it, I would have been able to guess it within three attempts.

We nodded that the computer would work and he actually left us along and unsupervised while he went to fetch it. Steve – far more advanced in all things technological than I was – immediately logged on and started a Google search for Rangeman. Within moments we were at a company website. The site was minimal, giving only essential information, but it, along with a few newspaper articles Steve dug up, proved the existence of the company. The information didn't provide evidence that the men who had captured us – Steve – _worked_ for the company, but it was a start. He at least wasn't making _every _detail up.

"How can we be sure you work for this Rangeman?" Steve questioned, his thoughts clearly having taken the same direction as mine.

"Call the inquiries phone number," Bear suggested promptly, as if he'd been prepared for out question.

"It's like ten o'clock," I pointed out. "And aren't they ahead of us? It'd be later there."

"It's a twenty-four hour number," Bear explained. "Your call is guaranteed to be answered no matter what time it is." He handed us a piece of paper with a list of names on. "This is who is with me. I've taken the liberty of including the nicknames you were muttering under your breath this morning so you can put a face to the names you're enquiring about."

Steve made to get up in order to grab the landline handset off the kitchen bench, but Bear continued speaking halting his actions.

"Perhaps you should hold off on that phone call a little longer," he suggested. "There may be something else you wish for them to confirm."

We waited expectantly, sipping our now warm hot chocolates.

"Rangeman was founded, in part, by a man named Ricardo Carlos Manoso," Bear stated as if he were giving a history lecture. "He was an ex-army Ranger and as such had earned the name Ranger on the streets, hence the company name."

_Ricardo Carlos Manoso_, I repeated in my head. _Ricardo Carlos Manoso_. Why did it feel so familiar? While I was puzzling over the name, Steve pulled up a Word document and began typing. I leaned over to reat over his shoulder and almost dropped my mug.

On separate lines, Steve had typed two names. The first was Ricardo Carlos Manoso. Directly below it, was Carlos Ricardo Garcia. Dad's name,

Surely it was a coincidence.

Steve's expression was carefully schooled to hide any give-away emotions, and as I returned my attention to the man across from us I tried to do the same.

"Mr. Manoso ran Rangeman for many years, setting up a well functioning system. Approximately twenty-five years ago he met a woman named Stephanie Michelle Plum whom later became his wife."

Steve laid a hand on my forearm, drawing my attention back to the computer screen where he once again had the word document up. He'd added to the list of names to include Stephanie Michelle Plum and Michelle Irene Garcia. Mom.

These names were scarily similar. I was starting to get sick to my stomach. Placing my mug on the table, I folded my arms around my middle in an effort to stop the shaking that was getting steadily worse. I felt like I was going to shake myself apart.

"Would you like me to stop?" Bear asked, sounding concerned.

I shook my head no and brought my heels up onto the edge of my chair so I could hug my knees. "Please continue," I requested, taking a deep breath.

Bear bowed his head briefly in a 'very well' type gesture and resumed his tale. "Almost eighteen years ago Ricardo and Stephanie had a child. A baby boy." He paused, making sure he had our full attention. "On the eighteenth of June," he added, causing the both of us to suck in air.

"His name was Esteban, wasn't it?" Steve questioned through gritted teeth. I saw his reasoning. The men had referred to him as Esteban many times that morning until he firmly reminded them that he was Stephen, not Esteban.

"Carlos Esteban Manoso," Bear confirmed.

Steve immediately typed that and his own name into the document. Again, the similarities gave me a sharp pang in the abdomen.

"You think I'm somehow this Carlos Esteban guy?" Steve asked. "Let me guess. Three years later they had a little girl who's name will coincidentally bear a striking resemblance to Regina Guadalupe?"

Bear shook his head. "It's more complicated than that," he said. "A year after the boy's birth they were all supposedly killed in a car crash, their bodies incinerated to the point where dental records had to be used to identify them."

"That's horrible!" I exclaimed, almost losing what little I had eaten today at the thought of the small charred body of a one year old boy. He'd been someone's son. Someone's grandson. He'd probably been the apple of so many eyes. While I was being grossed out by mental images, however, Steve was seizing on the information.

"Then I can't be that boy," Steve stated triumphantly. "And our parents can't be those people. So why are you here? Why are you telling us all this?"

In answer, the man handed Steve a slip of paper with a web address scribbled on it. Without questioning it, Steve plugged it into the computer. I gripped my knees a little tighter, leaning in for a closer look. The moment the site loaded, it was like a cloud stuffed itself into my head. I had to clutch the back of Steve's chair to keep from falling off my own.

That couldn't be right. Bear must have set the site up ahead of time to prove his point.

* * *

_Dun DUN DUUUUHHHNNNNN! What could possibly be happening?_


	18. Chapter 18

_Sorry guys. It's a little short this time around, but that's the way the cookie crumbles. Hope you like it all the same._

**Chapter 18**

_BOMBSHELL BOUNTY HUNTER NABS HER MAN_

In photo: Stephanie Plum shows off her new bling while being comforted by fiance Ricardo Manoso

_Women all over the state are in morning today as news spreads of the biggest engagement of the century. Stephanie Plum, better known as the Bombshell Bounty Hunter, was today seen flaunting her new ring at the scene of her latest explosion. The news of her advanced relationship status with local security guru Ricardo Manoso does not come as a surprise as it has been common knowledge that Plum and Manoso have been spending increasing amounts of time together since Plum's very public break up with cop Joseph Morelli just months ago._

I read the short article quickly, my eyes flying across the words at warp speed, all the while drawn to the image of the embracing couple that accompanied the story. There was no mistaking that the man and woman pictured were my parents. Stephanie Plum, had the same blue eyes, curly hair and engagement ring as my mother, the only differences being that Mom had a few more wrinkles. Most of Ricardo Manoso's face was obscured by the camera angle, but I knew it was Dad. His hair was longer and pulled into a leather thong at the back of his head, there was a distinct lack of grey at the temples and he was dressed entirely in black, including a black utility belt that appeared to be loaded with all sorts of weaponry, but the angle of the cheek bones, the colour of the one eye I could see and the skin tone was spot on.

There was more to my parents than I knew about.

Looking from the screen, to my brother, to the man across the table from us and back to the screen I started trying to fit the new image of Ricardo Carlos Manoso, the man I was told was my father, with all the experience I had of Carlos Ricardo Garcia, the man I knew as my father. I was shocked to discover that all the little holes I'd noticed in Dad's persona – his obsession with survival and war games, the skeet shooting he insisted Steve and I learn, the martial arts, and how he always knew who the killer was in the crime shows – were explained by the fact that he's ex-mil and worked in security for years. It all just made sense.

Mom, on the other hand...

"Why is this Stephanie Plum woman better known as the Bombshell Bounty Hunter?" Steve asked, clearly thinking along the same lines as me.

"Isn't a bounty hunter the person that goes after people that evade court dates and stuff?" I added, just making sure I was on the right track.

"That's pretty much what a bounty hunter is, yes," Bear confirmed with a nod of his head and a sip from his mug. "The story goes – and you have to understand that I can only tell you what I've heard and what I've read – that Plum had lost her job as a lingerie buyer and ended up blackmailing her Bail Bonds cousin into a job skip tracing. She wasn't too good at it, never having even held a gun, so she ended up in the paper with a number of disastrous escapades."

And just like that, another puzzle piece fell into place. Mom was always making reference to how her day might have been terrible on a normal scale, but when you compare it to people who get shot at or have things blow up on them all the time it was pretty easy. She made those references because she _had_ been through that at one time in her life.

I could easily reconcile the image of the couple in the article, and the history Bear had provided us with thus far, with Mom and Dad. But something was still missing.

"So what happened that turned Ricardo Carlos Manoso, ex-mil security expert to Carlos Ricardo Garcia, expert kitchen appliance salesman?" I asked.

"It's getting late," Bear informed us, neatly changing subject. "You should get some sleep. We'll pick this up in the morning. You can ask the old folk about what happened then. They were there for the events as they occurred."

I wasn't happy about the sudden information cut off, but he was right about needing sleep. It had been a long, trying day and I was starting struggle with the task of keeping my eyes open. I looked to Steve, noting that he too was frustrated with the end of sharing time, but when he glanced at me he nodded and stood. I did the same and took our mugs to the sink while Steve stepped closer to Bear. His voice was low when he asked the question that had obviously been bugging him.

"Are they even our parents?" he asked. "Or are we just part of their cover?"

Bear's brow furrowed ever so slightly. "I told you they had a son before they 'died'," he reminded Steve.

Steve's voice dropped even lower and I'm sure he didn't mean for me to hear as he asked, "What about Reggie?"

*o*

Loud, male voices penetrated my dream early the next morning, turning it from a my usual, nothing special, randomness to a war scene with bombs going off in the background and bullets flying around me as men yelled to each other to get out of the way. As one freakishly large, and slightly cartoonish, missile whistled, coming straight for my head, I shot upright in bead, instantly awake and breathing hard. It took a disoriented moment to remember that I'd gone to sleep in Mom and Dad's room, Bear having insisted that my own room was too close to where Tank was sleeping. He didn't want to risk the large black man waking up.

"Calm down," Steve's voice drifted to me from by the doorway where he was pressed against the wall.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, trying to calm my beating heart.

"Shh," he warned. "The other men just turned up and Bear is explaining about last night. They're not too happy about not being involved in the information session."

I nodded and allowed myself to collapse back against Mom's pillow as I spied the glowing numbers on the bedside clock. It was only six o'clock. I know I was usually a morning person, but after the last few days I really needed some extra sleep. Absently, I wondered how many times Mom had been in this exact position not wanting to officially join the land of the living by getting out of bed. Probably a lot. Mom wasn't a morning person at all.

"It's too early," I groaned, squinching my eyes closed again.

"Really?" Steve asked sarcastically. "You think it's too early? Why don't you remember that next time you're blaring the shower radio at this time of morning? Some of us need more sleep than others."

My brows drew together even though my eyes were still shut. "You're chatty this morning," I pointed out, yawning widely.

"I didn't sleep," he admitted.

Well that made sense. There was no way he could possibly be this verbose if he'd just woken up. My brother was a Neanderthal until early afternoon. I could only imagine how his morning classes played out at school.

"Why didn't you sleep?" I asked, finding the energy to open my eyes and gaze across the room at him.

"I was reading old newspaper articles from Trenton," he explained, pushing off the wall and making his way over to the bed. "I had to get a better feel for that Stephanie Plum woman."

"You mean Mom?" I reminded him of last night.

He shook his head. "No," he assured me. "I mean Stephanie Plum. Mom doesn't blow up cars and funeral homes and chase after bad guys." I opened my mouth to say something else, though I'm not sure exactly what, but Steve cut me off. "I don't care how much she looks like a young version of Mom. In every single photo. This Stephanie Plum woman _died_. Along with her husband and young son. There is no way she can be Mom. There's no way Manoso can be Dad. And there is no way the kid can be me. AND!" He'd now taken up pacing the floor at the end of the bed. "And, this couple didn't have a daughter! None of it fits."

"Okay," I allowed, hefting myself into an upright position against the headboard. "So what does that mean for the men down stairs?"

Steve's pacing was taking him increasingly closer to our parent's walk in wardrobe. "We need to be cautious. Remember everything we've learned from Dad."

"And just to be sure," I interrupted, gaining my verbal dexterity and ability to think at last. "Dad in no way could have learned the skills he taught us in the army as a Ranger?"

The look Steve gave me was the same one he used when I informed him that his math work was flawed. Also, the one he gave me when I told him that he was cooking dinner because he owed me. It was like he was trying to melt the flesh from my bones with his eyes. Good thing superpowers like that don't exist.

"I'm just saying," I explained, hopping off the bed and following him to the wardrobe when he stepped inside, out of sight. "It's a really good explanation for how Dad would know all this stuff and be so good at it."

"He would have told us if he was in the army," Steve snapped, sliding coat hangers along the rail so that they made that horrible squealing noise.

"Just like he told us about the photo thing?" I pointed out, moving Mom's dresses aside on the other side of the closet. I didn't need him to tell me that he was looking for the safe that was hidden behind the clothes somewhere. "You said yourself that you that you don't know much about Mom and Dad's life before they had us. And I don't either. What if there's a reason for that? We should give these men a chance to prove what they're saying is true."

"Fine," Steve said, pushing all the clothes aside with a flourish as he located the safe. "But we're taking precautions."

I gave him a sceptical look. "You know the combination?"

A shrug was his only reply before he pressed his ear to the door and began spinning the dial.

"Right," I stated on an exhalation of pent up air. "Well, I'm gonna take this opportunity to go shower and dress in clothes that are actually mine."


	19. Chapter 19

_I actually wrote a portion of this chapter before I got sick and it ended up sitting in my notebook for weeks before even being typed up. Today (and yesterday) I decided it was time to update it. So here's the latest chapter._

**Chapter 19**

There were men standing in the hall when I emerged from the bathroom several minutes later dressed in my favourite camouflage print harem pants and a plain black v-neck t-shirt with my hair wrapped in a towel turban style. A quick glance told me that none of them were Bear, so I was inclined to ignore them as I made my way downstairs to the kitchen. Now that I was up and moving about, I was hungry, as evidenced by the growling that came from my stomach as I stepped off the bottom stair.

I knew one of the men had followed me down. I hadn't heard the footsteps because he moved just as silently as Dad did, but I knew he was there. His presence was palpable, watching my every move. It was as though he thought I might suddenly attack him. Or perhaps he was just curious about me. God only knows why.

"Your brother isn't down here," the man informed me as I paused. "He hasn't left his room."

"He's not in his room," I countered, spinning on the spot to face him and managing to trap him on the stairs.

I took in his appearance while he sorted through the implications of my statement, and concluded that this had to be the one Steve had named Blondie. He was the only one I'd seen that had blond hair. Combined with his easy grin, he kind of reminded me of Deeks from NCIS: LA.

He was dressed the same as the men upstairs; black cargos and a tight, black v-neck tee, with worn, black combat style boots. The kind Dad favoured when we went on one of our survival camping trips. I'm sure he had a similar pair of cargos in his closet somewhere too. Thinking back to last night, and Bear's claim that the Manoso guy who used to own the company these men worked for was really Dad, I could kind of believe it. I'd have to call the company and confirm the facts that Bear had provided, but I was willing to give them the benefit of the doubt for now.

"Where is he then?" Blondie asked, dragging me from my thoughts.

"Not telling," I shrugged, using the same tone I used on Mom when I had a secret I keeping from her when I was little. I then turned on my heel once more and made my way toward the kitchen in search of breakfast. And again, he was right behind me. "Don't even try begging me to tell you," I said over my shoulder. I'm very good at saying no. My father spent days drilling me and Steve one vacation when we were kids. I could say no to a persistent offer of my favourite dessert if it served my purposes."

"That _does_ sound like something my cousin would do," Blondie murmured, sounding like he was agreeing with me. Probably, it was a sneaky tactic to get me to believe that Ricardo Carlos Manoso and my father were one and the same.

"Your sneak tactics don't work on my either," I mentioned as I entered the kitchen. Bear was at the stove top cooking what looked and smelled like back but could have been any kind of plot to drug or poison me.

"What sneak tactics?" the large, black man I believed to be Pierre asked, wincing as he shifted in his seat (_my_ seat) to pick up his tea cup.

A laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. The image of a man that size sipping from a dainty little cups Mrs. Westlyn had given us before she passed away a few years ago was just too much to handle. The next thing I knew I was bent at the waist with my hands braced on my knees as utter guffaws fell from my lips. I thought I had it under control when I could breathe for more than a brief moment, but the moment I looked at the little tea cup in the man's hand I lost it again, slowly lowering myself to the floor before I had a chance to land heavily on my butt when my knees gave out.

"What's so funny?" one of the men asked as I sat there in the middle of the floor laughing my guts up. In reply, I merely pointed in the general direction of Pierre and the tea cup.

It took them a moment or so to say anything after that, by which I'd managed to somewhat calm myself using the deep breathing exercises Dad had ingrained in me.

"She's laughing at him," Blondie said incredulously, looking between me, Bear and Pierre with a wide eyed expression. "It's like these kids don't have a fear gland."

"Fear is a useless emotion anyway," Bear mentioned, flipping the bacon in the pan.

I pulled myself up into the chair that Dad usually sat in and rested my crossed arms on the table, smirking in Pierre's direction, daring him to do something about my mockery.

"Sometimes a little bit of fear is healthy," Blondie pointed out. "Like when the man you're laughing at is three times your size and could squash you like a bug in two seconds flat."

Raising a single eyebrow at Blondie, I countered, "No he couldn't. He's injured." I turned my gaze back to Pierre. "I doubt he could even get off that chair in two seconds, let alone squash me like a bug."

"I wouldn't get too cocky," Blondie said. "You may find it'll come back to bite you on the-."

"I thought we were supposed to be proving how we're here to help," Bear growled in warning.

I think I was coming to accept Bear. He was genuinely helpful last night and appeared to be on my side at the moment. I still hadn't checked his story with the number he'd provided us, but honestly, I'm not sure how he expected that to help. Anyone could set up a guy on the other end of the phone to just agree with all the details they'd given someone. I'd have to come up with some other way of getting confirmation of the details. Maybe some dummy questions or something? Steve would have better ideas of what to do.

Speaking of which...

"So if your brother isn't in his room, where is he?" Blondie asked, taking us back to the conversation before we entered the kitchen. I knew the conversation would come back to this point eventually; they wouldn't just let the fact that Steve wasn't where they assumed he was go unquestioned.

"I already said I wouldn't tell you," I reminded Blondie. "Did you think I'd forgotten? Or did you forget yourself?"

The look on his face was almost as amusing at Pierre and his tea cup. He seemed cool, calm and collected up until I took the jab at his age. Then his eyebrows shot up and he glanced at the large black, old man across the table from me, then the almost as large, grizzly, not so old man behind me at the bench. It was like he couldn't believe he'd just been insulted. Clearly this man needed a pin to the head, because his ego was seriously inflated. Either he was quite the ladies man in his day or he was one of those guys that _thought_ he was a ladies man and he just hadn't had that wakeup call yet. I'd be more than happy to provide it for him while he was here. It was the least I could.

"Is he in the house?" Blondie asked, not ready to let the insult derail his quest for information.

"Still not telling," I said nonchalantly, rising from my chair and making my way to the pantry where I found the locked box that dad kept in the back. I brought it out onto the bench with all three men watching me carefully and curiously.

Blondie made his way over to lean on the bench and examined the combination lock on the box before looking across the top of it to where Pierre had managed to get out of his chair without so much as a groan and was also examining the box. They seemed to communicate silently for a moment before both stepping back with their arms crossed over their chests. Watching.

Bear wasn't even interested anymore, it seemed, as he tended to the bacon he was now removing from the pan and placing on a paper towel to drain. When he turned to place a second batch of rashers in the pan, I found out otherwise. Over the light sizzle of cold meat hitting hot pan, he asked, "What's in the box?"

I felt a smile creeping onto my face as I turned to face his back. "I thought you had more control," I said, crossing my arms. "Isn't it clear that I don't answer questions?"

"I'm asking what's in the box," Bear said, still facing the stove top and not me. "Not where your brother is. And you were planning on opening the box anyway. I'm just giving you a chance to explain it."

I gave the back of his head a charmed look before returning my attention to the box. It was nice of him to offer up this opportunity, but I wasn't going to take it. They didn't need to know that Dad, being the good boy scout he was, had prepared the house for cases of emergency such as this where we couldn't be sure the food stored on the shelves hadn't been compromised. Hence the locked metal box of dehydrated ration packs hidden behind a false back of the pantry. We also had a panic room in the basement that was fully stocked with enough food and water to get us through at least three months. Longer if we limited ourselves to less than the recommended daily intake of calories. But that was another kettle of fish.

Right now, I was thinking that delaying the box reveal, despite my audible hunger, was an excellent idea. Especially given that Blondie was glancing impatiently between me and the box. Taunting my captors probably wasn't advisable. Dad had often warned against such things when Steve managed to get the upper hand on me, but I was living on the edge at the moment. Besides, I'd never managed a pretend hostage situation without taunting, how was I supposed to traverse the real thing without it? It was like my method of coping. And sometimes it succeeded in gaining control. Not often. But sometimes. I'd say it had a thirty percent success rate on Mom, Dad and Steve.

"Call your men down here and keep them here and I'll go get my brother and bring him back," I offered, changing the subject. _Always strive for control._

Blondie looked at Pierre. Pierre nodded ever so slightly. That was all it took for Blondie to vanish from sight.

In the silence that followed, I tapped out a complicated beat on the lid of the box, ensuring that neither of the remaining men would forget its presence.

Only a few moments passed before Blondie reappeared, followed closely by Numbskull, Driver and Hal. It was pretty obvious who was who from the quick notes Steve had given me. I smiled sweetly at them all as Numbskull and Hall took a seat. They were all staring at me, just like they had when I'd passed them upstairs. It was as if they were trying to work me out.

"Right," I said easily, making my way to the door. "I'll just go get Steve then, shall I?"

oOo

Tank watched the girl go before letting out a resigned sigh and sinking slowly and carefully back into a chair at the table. His back was killing him and he'd gotten a total one hour's sleep the previous night because of it. He'd spent the dark hours shifting about, trying to find a position that didn't feel like the devil had inserted his pitch fork straight into his spine while trying to listen and get a grasp on what was happening in the house.

He'd heard movement in the attic and had originally assumed it was Bear doubled checking the space before he turned in. Not long after, though he'd heard whispered conversations coming from the bathroom, if the slight echo was an indicator. He'd listened carefully, and determined that only one of them was male and neither was Bear's deep rumbling voice. Regina must have returned to the house intending to regroup, but discovered them there and decided to rescue her brother instead.

Tank had listened carefully to their movements rather than attempt to get up and stop them as they made their way back up into the attic. He knew he was next to useless in his current state, but also that if there was someone in the house, Bear would know, since Cal had done a quick rewire of the security system so that they had access to the feeds that afternoon. They couldn't access the stored data yet, they'd probably need Ranger himself to do so, but at least they could monitor any activity in and around the house in the meantime.

Bear had engaged the teens in an extended discussion downstairs, out of range of Tank's hearing before finally sending – or allowing them to go, he wasn't sure which – to bed.

As the soft footsteps made their way up the stairs, Tank had finally levered himself into an upright position on the edge of the bed. He intended on having a little chat of his own with Regina, who's bedroom, he knew, was right next door to the spare room he'd claimed for the night. To his surprise, though, the footsteps ended halfway down the hall, followed by two doors closing.

In the middle of the night, having not dealt with the young girl beyond chasing her through back allies, Tank had assumed that Regina had chosen to sleep in her parents' bed in an effort to feel closer to them and ease some amount of anxiety that must have been coursing through her system. After a thorough briefing from Bear on the events and discussions that had transpired, however, he'd learned that Bear had directed her there to keep her from accidentally disturbing the large, sore man.

The pair were more resilient and independent than he'd expected, appearing to have been thoroughly trained in a whole range of defensive and offensive tactics. They were still kids, though, and kids were bound to go off script now and then.

"She's just like Steph," Lester mentioned, leaning his elbows on the mysterious metal box. "Sneaky, independent, resourceful, and has my full attention whenever she's around."

"You've only had one encounter with her," Bobby pointed out, snatching a strip of bacon from the pile Bear had already prepared.

"Yeah," he agreed. "But I'm pretty sure she has the potential to have me wrapped around her little finger by this afternoon," Lester explained, not even a hint of a joke in his tone or expression. "And what the hell is in this box?!"

Tank stifled the hint of a smile that threatened to reveal itself at Lester's abrupt topic change. He had no doubt that the girl had left the box there with the intent of driving Lester mad with curiosity. She had well tuned instincts, just like her parents.

"Where's she headed?" Tank asked Bear, ignoring Lester's dilemma.

Bear, who had finished cooking the bacon and set a loaf of bread and the tub of margarine beside it to for the others to make their own sandwiches, pulled out his phone and brought up the security feed for the house. He searched a moment before announcing in a slow, entirely suspicious tone that she had gone into the laundry and ducked behind the drier.

"So where's Esteban, then?" Cal asked, as Bobby laid the breakfast fixings on the table he was sat at.

"He moved quietly from his own room to the master bedroom where Regina slept early this morning," Bear stated. "To my knowledge he has not emerged."

"There's no cameras in there?" Lester asked, receiving identical are-you-serious looks from his colleagues.

"Think about it, Les," Hal suggested. "Where do we usually _not_ put cameras on our security installs?"

Bear stonily ignored the men grouped around the table and returned his attention to his phone switching between the view of the laundry and the upstairs hall, and occasionally checking the rest of the house for signs of movement. There had to be more to it than what he could see. Why would a smart, resourceful, capable girl hide behind an appliance instead of going to her older brother and attempting a new escape?

Something was up.

* * *

_Dun dun dun... What's up with thaaaaat? _


	20. Chapter 20

_Here's a fun activity for you while you're reading this chapter. I've used a phrase (two words, that makes it a phrase) in this chapter that I haven't used or heard since early high school. I feel it dated me, but in saying that, one of the girls who was at school with me (a few grades below) apparently still uses it. See if you can figure out what it is._

**Chapter 20**

I'd first discovered the passage behind the drier when I was seven years old, playing hide and seek with Steve one afternoon after school. At first I'd been too scared to go any further than the crawl space I'd ended up in, but with Steve and a flashlight by my side, we'd summoned the courage to explore their depths entirely. There were two entrances on the first floor; the one behind the drier and also one in back of the coat closet in the front hall. And upstairs there were three more openings in the guest bedroom, the linen closet and Mom and Dad's wardrobe. I'm sure Dad knew about it, since he knows everything about the house and what takes place within it, but he never mentioned its existence to us, not even after we'd emerged and I was sure he'd caught us on the security cameras.

Now, as I struggled up the makeshift ladder embedded in one of the walls, I wondered whether Mom and Dad could even fit in here. There was a lot less space than I remembered there being, especially in the vertical tunnel leading to the second floor. With a sigh of relief, I hauled myself onto the next platform and began crawling toward the wardrobe exit; absently noting how bizarrely clean it was in here.

I squeezed my way out from behind the safe in the walk in wardrobe only to find Steve in a defensive stance holding a weapon that appeared to have been constructed from wire coat hangers in front of my face. I froze. Standing stock still with one foot still behind the safe, I raised a single eyebrow at my brother.

"You really think it could have been one of those men?" I asked as he slowly lowered the weapon. "_I_ barely fit back there."

"You can never be too safe," he replied in a flawless impersonation of Dad, tucking the claw thing into his back pocket. "What took you so long?"

As Steve picked up a tangled mass of wire from the floor by his feet I moved past him to sit on Mom's dressing chair, tucking my feet up under me as I did when I was helping her decide on what to wear to dinner. Mom had some fabulous clothes that did wonders for her figure, but she hardly ever wore them. When I asked why, she'd informed me that it was too risky to be seen in such expensive clothing all the time. At the time, I'd assumed she was referring to the fact that she was accident prone and would likely ruin her entire stash of awesome clothes if she wore them too often, but in the light of recent events, I couldn't help but think there was more to that statement.

Like, maybe the reason she didn't wear fancy clothes very often was because if she wore fancy clothes she was more recognisable as the person she used to be? That Stephanie Plum woman _had _looked really elegant in the posed photos Bear had shown us.

"What if Mom and Dad really are these people the men downstairs say they are?" I asked, rather than answer his question.

Steve looked like he wanted to throw his tangled wires at me for that comment. His knuckles turned white where he gripped them, and his jaw clenched in a manner I hadn't seen in a long while. "I thought we agreed that there was no possible way they could be," he bit out.

"No," I countered. "_You_ made that decision all on your own. I never agreed with you. There's a logical explanation for all the issues you brought up with the connection."

"Logical?" Steve questioned, raising his brows at me. "Reggie, they're _convenient_. Those men down there are spinning lies, making you think that that dead family is _our_ family. It's not. It can't be."

"Why can't it be?" I demanded, absently aware that our argument was rising in volume. Probably, it would be audible from the kitchen soon enough and our hiding spot would be discovered. I couldn't work up the appropriate amount of care for such an occurrence.

"Because they're DEAD!" Steve practically yelled.

"People fake deaths all the time!" I yelled back, leaping off the chair to stand toe to toe with him. The mangled wire still clenched in his fingers was the only thing separating us. I didn't dare move any closer in case he decided to thrust it at me. With all the pointy ends sticking up everywhere, that thing could shred my chest in a matter of moments. It was an effective weapon, not that I was surprised. Dad had raised us to be resourceful. I just didn't trust Steve not to accidentally injure me with it in his current state of frustration.

"You want to believe them?" Steve hissed. "Fine. Go downstairs and play nicey-nice with the men. But don't come crying to me when they have you strapped to a torture device, demanding to know more about Dad's special security measures."

"Fine!" I announced and took two stomping steps toward the wardrobe door before remembering that I'd come up through the passage way. On the off chance that the men had managed to hack into the security feed of the house, it was probably better that I reappear where I'd disappeared, so as not to give them any clues about what was hidden behind the walls. Giving my brother a wide berth, I squeezed back through the hidden entrance behind the safe and made my way back to the laundry room.

When I re-entered the kitchen, the men were all seated, eating the bacon Bear had cooked. I noted that they had retrieved extra chairs from the dining room in order to accommodate themselves. No one looked up as I wove my way around them to the box still on the bench. No one spoke as I prepared a ration pack. No one commented when I chose to sit on a stool at the bench rather than with them at the already overcrowded table. In fact, I was starting to think their silence might be a strategic move to get me to talk first. My exposure to Blondie certainly suggested that he struggled to keep his mouth shut on a minute to minute basis.

The men had finished and Blondie and Driver were busy doing the dishes when Bear stepped up beside me. He made no sound, but jerked his head toward the hallway, the universal gesture for "I want to talk to you alone." I reached across the bench and dumped my bowl and spoon in the sink, flashing a grin at Driver when he glanced up, his form fitting t-shirt sprayed with water and soap, before following Bear out of the room, down the hall and into the living room.

It had been tidied at some point, if Steve's description of the state of the house when he'd first arrived was anything to go by, but I could tell that the men weren't familiar with how we usually had things. It was like walking into an alternate reality version of our living room. I felt off kilter. While Bear stood stock still in front of the flat screen, I went to work returning the vases and framed photos to where they belonged, scattering the cushions appropriately, and re-alphabetising the DVDs.

I was surrounded by piles of unsorted DVDs when Bear finally spoke.

"We know your brother is upstairs," he said gruffly. Everything he did was gruff, like he wasn't accustomed to being gentle or helpful. "We know that the passage behind the drier leads up there, and that you spoke with him."

"Argued," I corrected absently. Just as I'd suspected, they were able to hear our raised voices from downstairs.

A long time passed before either of us spoke again, and I had the feeling he was trying to work out how to continue the conversation without sounding like a pansy or a social worker or something. It was hard to sympathise with a girl a third of your size without sounding _sensitive_. To save him the agony of getting in touch with his softer side, I broke the silence.

"He doesn't think it's possible for Plum and Manoso to be Mom and Dad," I explained. Where was the harm in laying it all on the line? "He's fixated on the fact that they apparently died and that they only had one child. He wouldn't even listen when I mentioned that sometimes people fake their deaths to get out of a bind."

"It does sound a bit like a movie plot," Bear agreed.

"I know, but I'm sure it happens." I stuffed a stack of Law and Order DVDs into the shelf and sat back on my heels. "Tell me about what happened leading up to their supposed deaths," I requested. "What were they like? How did they die?"

"Better off asking the others," Bear said mildly. "I never knew them."

"But you're here with the others," I pointed out. "Why?"

Bear leaned a shoulder against the mantle under the TV, crossing his arms over his chest, causing his muscles to bulge in every direction. "Surely you can recognise how incompetent they are."

I had to hand it to him; the others did seem like a motley crew. "They're so ooooold," I said. "I mean, Pierre couldn't keep up with me and managed to completely incapacitate himself from the simple act of moving swiftly. Blondie's powers of interrogation leave a lot to be desired. And the others just _look_ useless."

"I agree," Bear said. "But they're here to attempt to help find your parents nonetheless. And they can sometimes be fairly useful in finding people. They've been in the security business for well over a hundred years... collectively."

A small smile spread across my lips at hearing his subtle jab at the other men. It was clear that Bear was trying to make me like him, but I didn't care. If he was going to disrespect his colleagues behind their backs, I was okay with that. If they didn't want to be bagged out, they should get their act together. When he caught my smile, he mirrored it with one of his own, and despite the scars on his face and the stubble on his jaw, he actually looked like a likeable human being when he smiled.

"So what do we do now?" I asked. It was the same question I had asked Steve on numerous camping trips where Dad had dropped us in the middle of the woods in an effort to test our orienteering skills. He'd asked the same of me a time or two as well. It was a familiar action; looking to someone else for guidance when you're at a loss.

"Now, we swap information," Bear suggested. "I'll tell you all I know of the situation from our side of the fence, and you do the same for your side."

"What about Steve?" I added, remembering his reluctance to accept the details the men had presented. It wasn't that I had accepted the facts, exactly, more that I'd decided that if they were going to help find Mom and Dad, I may as well play along. And once we'd found them, I could ask them if what the men said was true. Probably I should have voiced that idea to my brother while I was upstairs... "He'll come around," I ended up answering my own question and returning to the DVD sorting. "I'll find a way to convince him."

* * *

_Well, did you figure out the phrase?_


End file.
